The T'weenage Years
by Eboni
Summary: Oneshots that span the time between the end of Severed and the start of its unborn sequel. Stories will be posted in random order, and the lengths will vary. Make order of the chaos if you must, but more importantly, have fun reconnecting with the cast.
1. Allen vs Hellhound Round 1: Fight!

Author's Note: This is just a recap of the summary. A series of one-shots that span the time period between the end of Severed and the beginning of the sequel and will be posted in no particular order. Story lengths will vary. Translation: Don't try to make order out of this chaos. Hope you enjoy, lol!

* * *

_Allen Schezar vs. Hell Hound, Round One: Fight!_

It had been a while since Allen had brought a woman home. He hadn't had much of a chance to do it during the war, and now, with the kids, it was inappropriate. What sort of an example would that set for Celena to see her older brother bedding random women he had no plans of marrying? It might be a good example for Dilandau, but Allen wasn't going to think about _that_ particular situation for a while. He would deal with the present, which was the warm body sleeping beside him. Allen ran slim fingers through her long, soft hair. From the texture of her hair, he knew it wasn't Camilla or Shandra. He moved closer to sniff her perfume and frowned as he was attacked by body hair. It seemed to pierce through his silk pajamas, making his skin crawl. Good Lord, this woman certainly wasn't Vanessa or Caroline either.

A good whiff of her made Allen recoil. Whew!

Who–or rather _what_– had he allowed into his bed? Come to think of it, he didn't recall going on a date that night, and he hadn't let in any midnight visitors. In fact, no women had come to call on Allen in a long time. So, who was this and how did she get in? From the smell of her, she must have broken in, some poor, unwashed ragamuffin coming in out of the cold. Allen could certainly sympathize with her situation, but to crawl into his bed with him was inexcusable.

"All right, Miss," Allen began, his voice rough with sleep. He cleared his throat. "I don't know who you are, but when I count to three, I want you out of my bed and against the wall. You may take the top blanket to wrap around yourself." Allen shuddered. The woman was surely naked and he had no desire to see such a hairy body.

"One... two... N-now see here!" Something long and wet smacked him in the face and massaged itself against his jaw. It was hot and stank of rotting meat and vegetation. The breath on his face smelled no better. This woman was ill. Allen sprang into a sitting position and reached over to turn the key on the lantern beside the bed.

"Rowf!" She yelled, though it was more like a bark. A bark?

"Rowf, rowf, rowf!"

The flame in the lantern sprang to life as Allen clapped his hands over his ears. There was heavy panting as the body in the bed shifted, moving toward him so fast Allen didn't have time to move. He sprawled on his back with a large, shaggy monster's claws on his chest baring a mouth full of jagged teeth.

Allen screamed and it howled, then licked him, again.

"Rowf!"

There was a dog in his bed, a big nasty, smelly, muddy dog.

Doors down the hall slammed open. Footsteps pounded against the floor. Someone crashed into the end table against the wall next to his room. The door flew open, banging into the wall and bringing a framed portrait of Great Aunt Constance crashing to the floor.

Dilandau and Celena stood in their night clothes, wild and sleep rumpled, brandishing long swords. They turned back to back, ready for marauders to jump at them from all angles.

"Rowf!"

"What the– " Dilandau nearly dropped his sword on his foot.

"Migs!" Celena tossed her sword aside, Allen grimaced at that, and spread her arms open wide.

The sheep dog on Allen's chest wagged its stubby tail and leaped clear across the bed, bounding to his sister. Dilandau jumped out of the way, giving Celena and the dog a wide berth.

Allen sat up, staring at Celena, who was on the floor hugging and kissing the dog monster. Her gray undershirt and cotton pants were getting soiled with mud as were her hands, face, feet and hair. Allen touched his own saliva sticky cheek and pulled a clump of mud from his hair. His eye twitched.

"Celena!"

Celena and the monster looked up at Allen. Celena smiled. "You met Migs. Isn't he cute? He's such a good puppy."

Puppy?

"Celena," Allen got out of bed, " why is this dog in the house and more importantly, why was it in my bed?" Gentlemen didn't shout, they raised their voices.

Celena stared at him, lips trembling. Allen narrowed his eyes and glanced at Dilandau who was looking anywhere but at Allen, the corners of his mouth jerking.

"I swear to gods if you two are laughing at me..."

That did it. The twins roared and the dog wagged its tail.

"You–you have mud on your teeth!" Dilandau gasped.

"And you've got a paw print on your crotch!" Celena choked.

Allen's eyes widened. He ran a thumb over his front teeth, noting that they didn't feel as smooth as they usually did. Brown mud stained the back of his thumb. He gazed down at the ruined blue silk of his night trousers. He couldn't say much for the shirt either. Black and brown paw prints spotted his ensemble like a jungle design.

He padded across the wooden floor to stand over Celena and the monster with hands on his hips. "Do you see a smile on my face? Why is there a dog in my room?"

"He got out of mine." Celena shrugged.

"Where'd you find him?" Dilandau asked. He set his sword against Aunt Constance's shattered frame, careful to avoid the broken glass on the floor. He inspected the dog from afar like a land dragon that hadn't been sealed properly yet. He was the only one in the room not covered in mud, his white undershirt and red silk pants pristine.

"Near the creek," Celena said absently.

"In the gutter," Dilandau challenged.

Celena shrugged again. "Maybe he was more near the gutter."

"Celena, you brought a gutter rat into Mother's house?" Allen couldn't believe it. Actually, he could believe it, he just didn't want to. "How long has it been here?" Allen didn't think it was possible for something that size to be noiseless enough to have been there for more than a few hours.

"I brought him in tonight, made him a pallet next to my bed."

"Looks like he prefers mattresses," Dilandau said with a chuckle. He winked at Allen, when he glared. One day, Dilandau was going to get his for teasing Allen.

"Well, I would have given him yours, but you were drooling on it," Celena said, offering Dilandau a smirk.

"That mutt touches my mattress and it's sausage."

"You don't make sausage out of dog."

"You make sausage out of any animal bit. You meat-eaters should really research what you're eating," Dilandau said with an almost sweet smile. His silver hair offset by the dim lantern light glimmered like a false halo. The red eyes said it all.

Allen cleared his throat. "Why are we talking about this animal like it's going to be here long enough to touch anyone else's mattress?"

"Aw come on, Len, have a heart. Migs has no where to go, and he's only a baby. He needs people to take care of him."

"People?" Dilandau asked. "I hate dogs."

"You never had one!"

"Because I hate them."

"You never had a boyfriend, but you don't hate Van."

"Don't compare Van to this mutt. At least Van's house broken. This mutt's gonna chew up everything and crap everywhere."

"I'll train him and put down paper. Plenty of people keep big dogs around and sometimes you can't even tell they have em'."

"Well, everyone will know we have this one. What the hell's it been rolling around in? It smells like..."

"Well, I _did_ find him in the gutter."

Allen stared as the twins left his room, the dog following after them, tag wagging. He hadn't been able to get a word in edgewise, which wasn't unusual. He didn't run this house, those kids did. He heard something break further on down the hall.

"Aw Migs!"

"I can't believe you named it after Miguel."

"He'll love him!"

"Yeah, like peasants love taxes."

Laughter and barking, loud barking.

Allen fingered his dirty pajamas and glanced back at his filthy bed. His once blue and white bedspread was brown and gray, his white sheets were a lost cause, shredded by doggy toenails. He spat at the taste of mud in his mouth and ran a hand through his hair only to get dirt clods in his nails.

The door to his room crashed open again and the monster dog ran at his bed full speed, bouncing onto it and walking around in a circle. It laid down, curling around itself.

Allen scowled.

He'd shared his bed with a dog.

The monsters raised its head and stared at Allen. "Rowf!"

Allen wrinkled his nose. He could fight the dog for the filthy bed, or take a bath and sleep on the couch. The couch was sounding better and better, but Allen couldn't believe he was giving up his bed to a dog. Actually, he could believe it, he just didn't want to.

Gentlemen didn't curse, they used their words.

"Damn mutt!"

Hell Brat's Hell Hound: 1, Allen: 0.

* * *


	2. The Battle of the Inch

Author's Note: Hello again :). I'm happy so many people found this series, and I'm even happier that you guys find me amusing lol. I hope you enjoy the new installment, and I'd love to hear from you :).

A big thank you to Cat, who is always looking over my shoulder to catch my mistakes. _

* * *

_

_The Battle of the Inch_

Allen Schezar frowned. He sat in Father's favorite armchair with a glass of ice tea and a ham sandwich. There was a bright yellow book on the table beside him, _Miss Agatha Finch and the Man in Black_. Shesta had left it in the den the last time he and Gatty slept over. Allen meant to give it back, but he couldn't resist the blurb on the back.

He'd put the book on the table yesterday within reach of the chair. He was going to read it while he ate lunch. He stretched his hand out, the book was just out of reach. He looked down at the slender legs of the table. Its clawed feet sat in the middle of the moss green, fringed rug. Allen squinted. Or maybe it didn't. The middle of the rug was marked by a print of a pink rose. Allen wouldn't be able to see the pistol of the flower, if the table was in the right place.

Someone had bumped it. Allen stood, placing his plate and glass on the table, while muttering under his breath. Damn kids. He'd told them not to horse around in the living room. There were too many antiques for them to break in here. Allen would not see a hundred years of Schezar history shattered by wild teenagers and a club-footed mutt.

He gripped the pale oak table and slid it over an inch until it was back in the right spot. He sighed, glancing at the wall, and frowned again. Was Great Grandfather Frederick sitting higher than Nanna Susan?

He crossed the rug and banged his knee on Aunt Mildred's love seat. What was going on? He knew this room like the back of his hand and could walk through it with his eyes closed. He rubbed his knee as he surveyed the area. He used the bay window as his focal point. Fragmented midday sunlight cast squares on the army of furniture around Allen. The love seat, divan and armchair formed a three-sided rectangle adjacent to Great, Great Grandmother Esther's loom. The loom was covered by a quilt made by the woman before she'd died in that very spot. Next to it was the brass spittoon she'd spit her tobacco into. Allen figured Celena inherited many of her traits from Old Granny Esther. Allen recalled Father telling Mother that the "old bat" had been crazy.

Allen tilted his head. The corner of Cousin Lilly's couch should be, Allen gazed up, directly under the chandelier. It wasn't. The entire room had been shifted to the left. This was more than children carelessly ramming into furniture; someone had come in here and purposefully rearranged everything. Allen growled. If Celena and Dilandau had done this as a joke, Allen was changing the locks. They could live at the castle full time instead of with him. Forget about family-bonding and all those other things Princess Eries insisted was good for the estranged Schezars. The brats needed a cage, and King Aston's palace was the perfect size. They could move and break all the stuff they wanted there and the dog monster could terrorize Dryden.

Allen grinned. Dryden versus Hell Hound. Allen would visit the zoo to see that.

He glared at the room. It irked him for things to be out of place, but after spending all morning in the yard and then taking a cold bath, cold because a certain silver-haired someone kept using all the hot water, he wanted to read his book, eat his sandwich and drink his tea. He plopped back down in the armchair, snatching up his book as he sank into the worn leather. He thumbed to the page he'd dog-eared, his mind more on interrogating his siblings than Agatha.

What in the world would possess them to mess with the furniture, especially in this room? They knew what it had meant to Mother. Shaking his head, Allen closed the book on his thumb. Agatha wasn't meeting the Man in Black this afternoon.

* * *

Dilandau and Celena were in the kitchen making jam sandwiches, or rather Dilandau was making jam sandwiches for himself and Celena stood near the counter ready to steal a couple. Allen wondered if Celena noticed Dilandau wasn't using a butter knife to spread the jam. Celena reached for a sandwich.

"Watch you fingers, Celena," Allen said.

Dilandau shot Allen an amused look, while sucking raspberry jam off the steak knife he held. Celena's eyes went wide.

"You little shit!"

"Your dog ate my right arm-guard."

"So you try to stab _me_? Stab Migs! Stupid mutt. Come to think of it I haven't seen him since this morning. I swear to gods Dilan, if you did something to my dog..."

"If I did something? Allen's the one who tries to slip rat poison into its table scraps."

"He what? Len, have you..."

Allen massaged his temples. It was so easy to forget your objective when dealing with the twins. They argued about anything and the number of times they could change the subject in under a minute was sure to set some sort of record.

"Both of you shut up!"

Celena whirled to face him, hands on her hips. Dilandau set his knife down in favor of a sandwich. Their eyes trained on his face, expressions identical: Entertain us.

"What have I told you about the living room?"

Celena's eyes glazed over, apparently in deep thought. "Er... Don't let Migs in there or you'll string him to Scherazade?"

"If we break something in there, we'd pay for it in blood?" Dilandau took a bite of his sandwich.

Allen growled deep in his throat as they chuckled. Did no one take him seriously anymore? His own men were starting to question his judgment and double check his orders with Dilandau, before they did anything. All right, so it had only happened once, and it may have had something to do with the fact that Allen was under the influence of the suspicious ale Dallet had brought from his hometown. Whatever the circumstance it had still been humiliating.

"I want to know who thought it was funny to rearrange the room? You know how old and fragile the things in there are. What if you'd broken something?"

Celena looked puzzled. "Huh? Rearrange the room? What in the world would make you think we'd do something like that? That's not fun. That's work."

Allen clenched his hands at his sides. "Are you telling me you two have nothing to do with the state of that room? Are you telling me one of Dallet's ghosts went in there and..."

"Calm down, Allen. Dallet's ghosts are about as real as men with wings." Dilandau grinned and Allen fumed. "I moved some things around in there yesterday."

"Why, and if you tell me you did all that to make me think I'd lost my mind when I went in there, I'll..."

Dilandau snorted. "Oh please. Why does everything someone does in this house have to be about you? For your information, I moved objects that were out of place. The pictures on the walls were crooked and the furniture wasn't aligned properly. If I'd had a ladder, I would have done more. I couldn't reach some of those ugly hanging quilts."

Allen smacked a hand down on the counter. "Nothing was out of place. Everything was just how it's been for a hundred years! Mother was always so careful to make sure no one moved anything while cleaning up in there. How could you just... You're lucky I know where everything is supposed to be. You and I are going to be moving furniture tonight."

"I'm not moving anything back into the wrong place. The room looks better, leave it alone." Dilandau finished his sandwich and leaned on the counter.

"The room looks wrong!"

"No, it looked wrong before. Now, it's tacky, but right," Dilandau said.

"Tacky! That's our family history. If Mother could..."

"Mother hated that room," Celena said.

Allen choked on the rest of his sentence. His head swivelled to Celena. She was cutting the crust off a sandwich with Dilandau's steak knife.

"What are you talking about? She was always airing it out and walking through it looking around. She told me never to go in there and to keep you out of it because you'd destroy the place." "She aired it out and looked around because Father loved that room. He was the one that sat in there and smoked his pipe and read, not her. The room reminded her of him. Out-of-date and off center," Dilandau said and frowned at a second sandwich, as if noticing some imperfection on it. Allen had a flashback of Celena at three, throwing raisin bread back at him because it had too many raisins in it. Dilandau offered the flawed sandwich to Allen.

Allen waved it away, and Dilandau tossed it to Celena, who grinned and said, "Thanks."

"Out-of-date and off-center?" Allen couldn't believe his ears. Dilandau and Celena were slandering Schezar history.

"She'd pass the room and shudder. If there was a door, she'd have kept it closed, unless she wanted to moon about Father,"Celena said. "She talked about how ugly the colors were."

"She hated the spittoon and loom the most. She could suffer the crooked paintings and misplaced furniture, but she'd had to cover that loom," Dilandau said.

Allen barely suppressed a shiver. It was a bit disconcerting when the twins reminisced. They seemed to have a collective memory. One would start to recall something and the other would finish, almost like they were inspiring one another. Certain things were clearer than others though. Celena's memories were better when she and Dilandau had been older. She told Dilandau and Allen a lot about the time she and Dilandau had spent in Zaibach. Dilandau's memories, surprisingly enough, once prodded, were better when he and Celena had been younger. He remembered Mother best. Celena called him "Momma's Boy", and he'd surely been.

Allen saw a shyer Celena at 4, holding onto Mother's skirts and following her wherever she went. The little girl's moods had seemed quicksilver. One minute she was tearing away from Allen and Mother, weaving paths of destruction in her wake, the next, she was biting people who tried to make her go out and play so "grown ups" could talk. Allen wondered why Celena and Dilandau hadn't gone as crazy as they drove Allen sharing one body.

"That loom is ugly as sin. That angel carved into it looks like a deformed dwarf with bat wings," Celena said.

"That thing's an angel? I thought it was a gargoyle."

"Nope. If you think about it..."

Allen held up a silencing hand and the twins gazed at him again. "So, you two have established that Mother hated the room. That's nice, but the fact remains that she never moved anything. There had to be a reason why, and I think we should honor it."

"She thought Father would come back and be pissed about her pushing his stuff around," Celena said simply. "I think Father's dead, but if he's alive and comes back, I could care less about what he feels. Besides, I walked passed there three times today. I couldn't tell anything had moved. Father wouldn't notice a thing. How did you notice, Len? Oh wait, you're almost as obsessive compulsive as Dilan."

"I'm not obsessive!" Allen snapped.

"I am." Dilandau chewed on a second sandwich. "Things that are out of place irk me. That room begged: Fix me. I swear Granny Esther's spittoon tried to hug me for adjusting the angle of that stupid loom."

"Dilandau! You can't just– "

"Geez Allen, get over it already. Nobody liked that room as it was but Father. If Mother had the heart, she would have put most of that stuff where the sun don't shine," Celena said.

"It's the principle of the thing! You can't rearrange things in the house without asking everyone who lives in the house if it's ok!"

"Are you kidding me? I didn't think you'd notice." Dilandau passed the sandwich he was working on to Celena, another imperfection spotted. "I've moved things all over the place and you haven't said a word. I figured you liked my improvements."

"Improvements?" Allen stared. What other rooms had Tolerable Brat desecrated?

"Just putting things where they should be, how they should be." The entire platter of sandwiches was pushed toward Celena.

Allen glared at that. "If you continue to insist upon not eating meat, you need to eat more of other things."

"I had a whole sandwich."

"With nothing but jam on it. Drink some milk." Allen didn't wait for Dilandau's reply. Instead, he went to the ice box to retrieve the milk pitcher. "You haven't been in my room, have you?"

"Does it look like I've been in your room?" Dilandau smiled at him and Allen narrowed his eyes. That smile could mean one of two things: Dilandau had been in his room and he was amused because Allen hadn't noticed or Dilandau hadn't been his room at all and was trying to make him paranoid.

"Well, I know you haven't been in my room," Celena said, mouth full.

"Of course not. Nobody in their right mind would go in there," Dilandau said. "They may never come out."

Celena laughed, bread crumbs and purple jelly splattering onto the counter. "Miguel always makes it back out."

Allen nearly dropped the milk. Dilandau took it from him with an amused smirk.

"What? When's that boy been in your room? No boys in your room!"

"Hey, if Dilan can have boys in his room..."

Allen smacked a hand to his forehead. "That's different! He's..." Well, no. How was it different? Allen didn't want boys in Celena's room because she was a girl and boys and girls did things behind closed doors Allen didn't want to imagine his sister participating in. Dilandau was a boy, but if he liked boys and invited over other boys that shared the same interests...

"No boys in either of your rooms!"

"What about Shesta, Gatty, Viole, and..."

"They're exceptions!"

"Then, Miguel's an exception too."

"No, _he_'s not!" A big vein in his forehead was throbbing. Allen was getting a headache. Why had he come in here again?

"So you'd rather us make out in the den?" Celena asked.

"Or the living room," Dilandau suggested, peering into the milk pitcher. "I can't drink this."

"No, none of you are allowed in the living room, and there will be no making out in the den, or anywhere!" Allen massaged his temples. "And why can't you drink the milk?"

"It's got skin."

"That's just cream. It's fresh. Skim it off the top." Allen sounded exasperated.

"I don't want it. I'd sooner eat Migs than drink this."

"_Where_ is my_ dog_, Dilandau?" Celena plopped her hands on the counter, fingers gripping the wood and staining it with jam.

Allen groaned. He wasn't there anymore, at least not to the kids. He was surprised they'd listened to him for that long, before returning to their bickering. He needed to lie down. How come he hadn't taken a nap instead of trying to hold a conversation with his siblings? There was a reason why he tortured himself, but he'd forgotten it the topic had changed so many times.

He had a sandwich, tea, and a book somewhere. He should find them and take them to his room, so he could rest. But where had he left them?

"Dilandau, _what _did you _do_ with _my_ _dog_?"

The living room. Oh. He remembered now.

_Crash. Scrape. Crash. Crack_.

"I...uh... tied it up in the gardener's shed. I suppose I should have used a chain instead of rope." Dilandau's magenta eyes were wide, he bit his lower lip. "Ah..."

Allen gulped. The noise came from the direction of the living room. There was a side door that opened right into the rose garden. The gardener's shed wasn't far from it.

"Dilandau, when you were _fixing_ the room, did you move Grandfather Hebert's smoking chair from in front of the side door?"

Dilandau stared at him. "It was blocking an exit."

"And an entrance," Allen murmured.

_Crash_!

Celena was pale. "Migs?" she called, voice sounding vaguely hopeful. Maybe it wasn't the mutt monster but some burglar bold and dumb enough to break into the Schezar manor in broad daylight.

"Rowf!"

They stared at each other.

"I had no way of knowing that mutt would break down the side door, if I moved a chair. Don't look at me!" Dilandau held up both hands.

"If you hadn't tied him up for so long..." Celena started.

"If you hadn't let that monster get into my stuff..."

Allen threw his hands in the air and left the kitchen. He could still hear Dilandau and Celena arguing over the cacophony of a rampaging dog loose in the house. The monster had moved on to the den from the sounds of it. Allen headed for the stairs, book and sandwich forgotten. Migs had probably eaten them both anyway.

He trudged up the stairs to his room and shut the door, locking it behind him. He was going to sleep. He crossed the room with his eyes closed and, "Aaaah! Ouch!"

Allen sat in a tangle of arms, legs and chair on the floor. What in Gaia? Allen stood, rubbing a sore spot on his thigh. He stared at his desk chair, then at his white ash wood desk against the window. He squinted out of one eye. No wait, it wasn't exactly against the window. There was a gap between the desk and the sill that hadn't been there before. Someone had scooted his desk back several inches. Allen gazed around his room. Eyes pausing on several mounted portrait frames. Why was Aunt Constance next to Uncle Arthur, and was the painting of the rose higher than the painting of the tulip?

"Dilandau!"


	3. A Cold Shower

A Cold Shower

The hot water worked the knots out of his muscles like magic hands kneading in all the right places. Allen moaned and touched his forehead against the blue tiles of the shower wall. He'd been on the melef training field with green cadets all day, struggling to get Scherazade's old limbs to move as quickly as those of the new melefs Folken had designed. The levers in the old machine needed to be oiled, the leather replaced in the chair. The ventilation wasn't even what it used to be, and he could forget about the cooling systems.

Maybe he really should put Scherazade aside for one of the newer models. People were always complaining about him being old fashioned, and Allen was proud of it. He liked being traditional. It brought honor to the family name... and pain to his back. Pain that he shouldn't have until he was an old man. A man in his twenties should not limp like he did when he left the practice field today. Celena and Dilandau had too many things to say about it. Allen could not continue giving the brats ammunition.

He pushed off the wall. Time to rinse the lather out of his hair. He tilted his head back right when the water turned ice cold.

"Aiiiiiiieeee!!"

* * *

"Geez Allen, your falsetto is horrible. Stick to war and politics," Celena said as Allen stomped into the kitchen in cotton lounge pants, wet hair leaving puddles wherever he stepped.

"Where's _your_ brother?" Allen kept his voice low.

Celena raised a single brow along with a single corner of her mouth. "Uh-oh. He's only _my_ brother, when you're pissed at him. He's outside, but let me grab a snack first before you guys start."

Allen glared at Celena and charged out of the kitchen. He marched through the parlor, and Migs, who was chewing on one of Allen's boots, jumped up to trail him. The front door was slightly ajar and Allen kicked it the rest of the way open with his bare foot.

"Rowf?" Migs's bark sounded unsure.

Allen whirled to growl at the sheep dog and almost laughed when Migs whined and backtracked into the living room. Sometimes Migs wasn't as stupid as Allen accused him of being.

"Dilandau!"

Allen cleared the porch in one leap. The grass was sharp beneath his feet. He ignored it as he traversed the lawn. Not in the rose garden. Not in the vegetable garden. Not in the stable.

A whistle.

Allen glanced up at the noise. Dilandau lounged on the middle branch of an elm tree in the center of the yard. How many times had he watched Allen stalk by him, calling his name, and not said anything?

"You hollered, Majesty?"

Dilandau closed the book he was reading and set it on his knees. Allen glowered. He was tired of the kids looking so amused when he was angry with them. He was going to wipe that smirk off Dilandau's face.

"You used all the hot water again!"

Dilandau blinked. "I used it? The water was cold when you got in?"

"No, but it went cold a few minutes later! I didn't even get to finish washing my hair..."

"Well, if you didn't have four feet of it down your back... I didn't use all of the hot water, you did. You shower a lot longer than I do. I bet I could have gotten clean in the amount of hot water you had."

"Then maybe you should let me use the bathroom first, and then you can use your quick cleansing skills to make the best use of what's left of the hot water."

"I don't understand why you can't just wait for the damn thing to warm up more water," Dilandau said. "We need a shower schedule."

"One that doesn't involve you taking the best times," Allen said.

"Hey, showers are first come, first serve. I can't help it if you're slow as hell," Dilandau said. "I wouldn't complain if you turned on your shower first and my water got a little cold."

"A little cold? That water is like ice! You would so complain. You bask in hot water like greedy kings bask in gold. Your bathroom is so steamy I can't see myself in the mirror for 5 minutes after you've left it. And...and I've timed you! You took 15 minutes today! Yesterday, you took 20!"

"I was filthy," Dilandau shrugged. "When you work as hard as I do..."

"Excuse me?" Allen was ready to climb the tree and push Dilandau out of it. "Who doesn't work as hard and harder than you everyday?"

"Oh please. Most of the time you're playing Dryden's right hand. I, on the other hand, am out on the field with the troops."

"Not all the time, and only because you're impossible in meetings when you don't get your way," Allen growled.

Dilandau raised a brow. "Either way I get dirtier, so I require longer showers, and if I get to it first, I get to use it first."

"What happened to your idea of a schedule?" Allen snorted.

"We don't need a schedule."

Allen opened his mouth to shout.

"What we need is another water heater."

Hm. Allen rubbed his chin. A second water heater, then there would be one for Allen's bathroom and one for the kids' bathroom. He wasn't so angry anymore, but...

"You are aware that we'd have to tear up half the house to lay down new pipes and redo the old ones if we get a new water heater, right?"

Dilandau gazed down at Allen. "We can't just build a separate bathhouse outdoors?"

"And put it where, in Mother's roses?"

"Point."

They were quiet.

"Do you even know how to do pipework?" Dilandau asked.

"I've seen it done," Allen said.

"Do you know anyone who can do pipework?" Dilandau tapped his fingertips on his book.

"Kyo."

"I think you're better off taking cold showers, old man." Dilandau went back to his book and Allen stared.

Allen heard the front door slam closed and heavy footsteps across the yard. He turned his head to see Celena walking toward him with a bowl of candied fruit.

"Oh good, you waited for me before you tried to kill him," she said brightly. She sat down a few paces away from the tree, looking at Allen expectantly.

Allen blinked. Well, he supposed he owed the girl a show. "You little..." Allen started up the tree as Dilandau started down.

Chasing a teenager across a crispy lawn in your bare feet wasn't a pastime Allen wanted to make a habit of. Sadly, it seemed he didn't have much choice in the matter. Tomorrow, he would be chasing Celena; the next day, the dog. And after it all, he'd need a shower.

A cold shower.

* * *

Author's note: This one will have a sequel called "Pipework". I can't wait to get into the Schezars and company playing plumbers. Yes, the Slayers, Folken, Marie, Pearce and Allen's crew will appear in these stories eventually lol. Thank you for all the response I've gotten for these little shorts, and I will try to pop these up quicker.

So... what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Anyway it is, please let me know. Please review!


	4. Night Wandering

Author's Note: Hi everyone! Thanks for the great response to these stories. Before I say anything else, I know you've all noticed that this is not "Pipeworks" lol. I did warn you that these stories would be out of order. I couldn't in good conscience post _that_ story which could give you an idea of the actual timeline :P. Actually, I haven't written it yet, but I had this one ready to go, lol. I hope you enjoy it! It's more fluffy than it is funny, but I think it's cute :).

* * *

Night Wandering

"Stupid mutt!"

Allen stumbled as Migs ran through his legs. The shaggy monster puppy had all the room in the world to go around Allen, but did he ever choose to use it? Only when there was something expensive to destroy. That way Allen couldn't grab him by that nub of a tail and sling him in the opposite direction. Allen's muscle tone was improving as a result of wrestling with Migs.

Instead of whirling around and planting his paws on Allen's crotch like he usually did, Migs paid Allen no mind and scampered off toward the parlor. Good riddance. Allen was going to the kitchen for his occasional midnight snack, and he hated opening the ice box with Migs around. The last time Migs had made off with the steaks Allen had been marinating for dinner one night. Dilandau had laughed himself silly, and actually opened the door to help Hellhound escape. He wouldn't have thought it was so funny if it had been _his _dinner.

The wooden planks of the kitchen floor were cold beneath Allen's bare feet. His toes curled under with each step, and he shivered. He should have pulled on some socks, but his stomach didn't have the patience to wait for him to find some. Celena kept telling Allen all these midnight meals were going to make him fat. Allen kept telling her that he'd never had a midnight meal until she'd returned, so it must be nervous eating. Her bad manners were driving him to premature obesity. Perhaps if she wore a few dresses, he would stop. Celena said she would make sure the tailors in town knew to let his pants out a few sizes.

Brat.

He pulled open the heavy door to the ice box and extracted some leftover ham from dinner from a covered dish on the top shelf. He was surprised to see it. Celena usually came down minutes before midnight and helped herself to large sandwiches, eating all the meat and leaving Allen with Dilandau's fruit and whole grains. Allen didn't mind the fruit, but he'd sooner feed the whole grain to Migs. Heavens knew he never fed that dog anything willingly. Feeding creatures encouraged them to stay. Celena was a perfect example of that. He would never be rid of her.

Allen made a thick sandwich and poured himself a tall glass of milk. This should last him until breakfast. He left the kitchen, going in the direction of the parlor. He liked to eat in there when he was alone. He opened the windows sometimes, if it wasn't too cool and the mosquitos weren't too bad, and enjoyed the sweet scent of Mother's roses on the wind and his view of the Mystic Moon. Sometimes, he thought about Hitomi, the little girl he thought he'd loved. What kind of stories did she tell people about him? She'd casually forgotten to say goodbye to him when she'd left. Though, Dilandau let it be known that she'd made it a point to bid him farewell, and wish him luck with Van.

She hadn't even liked Dilandau, and she'd been in a relationship with Allen! She shouldn't have had hard feelings against Allen. _She_ had dumped him.

No matter how long ago it was, it still stung. Allen Schezar– dumped by a teenage girl. How humiliating.

Allen stopped just outside the small archway that led into the parlor, leaning on the frame as he spied Dilandau sitting on the floor with Migs sprawled at his side. Dilandau seemed to almost absently stroke the fur between the dog's eyes, and Mig's stumpy tail wagged slowly. They looked peaceful, and Allen felt like an intruder. He quietly tiptoed away, taking his snack up to his room.

* * *

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Allen frowned at Dilandau. The boy had bags under his eyes and his frequent yawning was causing Allen to yawn too. They rode side by side on tall, chocolate mares, bobbing almost in synch with each other in leather saddles.

"Some," Dilandau said, smothering another yawn with a fist. "Why?"

"You seem tired," Allen said, raising a brow, _And off your game_. "Is something bothering you?"

"Dryden's early morning council meetings," Dilandau groused. "Tell me again how I ended up having to attend council meetings? They hate me."

Allen chuckled. "That's why. You never agree with what they say, and Dryden likes to hear differing opinions."

"He never sides with me," Dilandau grumbled. "And 2 times out of 5, I'm asked to leave or be tried for treason."

Allen laughed outright. "They never threatened to try you for treason, just to toss you in the dungeon with the men on trial for treason."

Dilandau gave Allen a hooded glance. "I can spook your horse into throwing you, you know?"

Allen held up his hands in amused surrender. "You are aware that all those men in there think you're brilliant. They'd never actually follow through on any threats they make. You just…have a way of expressing yourself that makes people angry. Once they cool down, they do consider your ideas."

"Hm." Dilandau yawned again.

"Maybe you should pass on today's meeting and take a nap. Dryden can talk to you privately later," Allen suggested. It wouldn't do to have Dilandau nodding off in council meetings. Those men watched him like a hawk, and would go in for the kill. Then Dilandau would counterattack, Dryden would nearly suffocate trying not to laugh, and Allen would have a mess to clean up.

Children. Children and puppies. Couldn't live with them; couldn't eat them. At least not in this country.

"Maybe."

Allen blinked. Dilandau was thinking about his suggestion? Could he possibly have forgotten it was Allen he was talking to? Maybe they should turn around and go home.

"Are you all right?"

Dilandau didn't answer right away, and Allen frowned and removed a riding glove. He brought his horse close enough to Dilandau to touch one of his cheeks.

Cool.

Dilandau blinked at him. "I'm not sick."

"No, you're not. So, tell me what's wrong. I'd like to help if I can," Allen said.

"Well, first, back off a little. You're scaring the shit out of my horse," Dilandau said with a smirk.

Allen rolled his eyes and complied only because he was about to move away anyway. It was dangerous to ride so close. They rode for a few more minutes, Dilandau looking straight ahead like he hadn't seemed to agree to tell Allen anything.

"Well?" Allen asked.

"Well, what?"

Allen hated teenagers. All of them were out to get him. They dumped him; they mocked him; they irritated him… they worried him.

"I saw you up last night."

Dilandau frowned. "Meaning you were up pretty late yourself. Should I ask _you_ what's wrong? Oh wait, I forgot you get up in the night to raid the ice box. Pig."

Allen sniffed. Pig was what he'd eaten, not what he was. Though, hadn't Hitomi said something like: you are what you eat? Blah, teenagers mocking him again, even when they weren't present.

"Dilandau…." Allen waited until Dilandau looked over at him. His red eyes were dark, tainted with sadness. "Are you having nightmares again?"

The nightmares. Allen hadn't been prepared for them and had thanked the gods for Celena, rare as that was, who _was_ prepared for Dilandau's midnight shrieks. They'd crashed into Dilandau's room, armed for combat, to find him battling pillows and blankets and drenched in sweat. Celena had dropped her sword and climbed onto the bed, tackling Dilandau like an enemy. Allen screamed at her, but quickly realized that she was right to be so rough. Dilandau fought her like a demon as she tried to pin him down. Allen had to help her. It had taken them five minutes to wake Dilandau, and another five to convince him that he was not in a Zaibach lab, the Madoushi were gone, and yes, all but 6 of his Slayers were dead.

The nightmares had started a week after Dilandau and Celena had moved into Schezar manor, and had stopped after a month. Or maybe they hadn't.

"No, not really," Dilandau said almost absently.

"And what does 'not really' mean?"

"They're not nightmares, just dreams that…I'd rather not have," Dilandau said with a shrug. "Do you ever… think about people who've died, just think about strange things that they used to do that got your attention?"

"Yes," Allen said. "I usually enjoy thoughts like those. What bothers you about yours?"

Dilandau sighed. "I don't know if I'm just thinking about them, or if I'm remembering something that I've forgotten. I think I'm getting my memory back, all of it, bit by bit, and some of the bits I don't like. They aren't nightmare worthy, but a lot of them aren't pleasant."

Allen tilted his head to study Dilandau. He didn't look troubled, but Dilandau was good at controlling his facial expressions when he wanted to. He never stopped himself from laughing at Allen's expense.

"They keep you up?"

Dilandau shrugged. "So many things happened back then, Allen. It scares me to know that there's more. That what I'm getting so far is just the tip of the iceberg. Makes me want to go into that council meeting and shout: To hell with peace. Let's go Madoushi hunting. Celena would like that."

She would. It scared Allen how much he knew she would, and it scared Allen more that Dilandau might be right behind her. Celena wouldn't go off on her own, but the two of them could disappear one day—like they had back then.

"Do you really want to start another campaign, Dilandau?" Allen asked.

"I'm bored, Allen. I wouldn't mind if someone from here blew a whole in the Mystic Moon and incited a war of the worlds. I need something to do."

Allen nodded. He could relate. Sometimes soldiers needed action, but they didn't necessarily want a disaster to bring it about, especially only a few months after a major war.

"I was thinking about visiting Fanelia. I miss Van and Folken, and even Marie and Pearce. They've been almost too busy to keep in touch."

Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, Allen thought. The less contact Dilandau had with Van the better the chances of Allen setting him up with a girl from Court. Any of them would stomp another to get to Dilandau first, if they thought he was even mildly interested. Allen would be sure to spread the rumor that he was.

"Maybe we all can go," Allen said. He'd be damned if Dilandau slept anywhere near Van unsupervised by someone responsible. Folken would probably let them run wild, and gods knew that woman doctor wouldn't care. She'd encourage it. And Pearce… Allen shuddered… would be Pearce.

"Give it a rest, Allen. You were willing to accept Van liking me before you knew I was your brother; you even helped him. Stop being a hypocrite."

"I'm not being a hypocrite; I just want you to keep your options open and I don't want you going too far with anyone too soon."

"Define going too far?"

Allen groaned. Dilandau was either being very annoying or disturbingly innocent with that question, and Allen didn't think he wanted to know which it was. "What are we going to do about getting you to sleep at night, Dilan?"

"I won't drink warm milk."

"You won't drink milk period," Allen grumbled. "Maybe a tea. We can ask Millerna about it after the meeting, or I can if you're busy."

"I have to evaluate Gatty's team today. They might be the first of the cadets to get their marching orders," Dilandau said, a note of pride in his voice. "We've been talking about maybe… taking some of them and making them Slayers. It would be nice to have a full team again, but it'll be hard to replace who we've lost. I don't know that any of the cadets could pass our tests. We'll see how much better they get."

"That would be a big step for you and your friends," Allen said. The Slayers seemed to be over the deaths of their comrades, but there were times, when things got quiet, that any one of them could be caught staring off into space seeming sullen and melancholy.

Dilandau yawned. "Maybe."

Allen yawned in response. "I'll talk to Millerna myself then."

"Try not to catch her indecent; Dryden won't appreciate it."

"Brat."

* * *

Allen paid special attention to Dilandau as he prepared for bed. The boy had laid out on his stomach on a rug in the middle of the den with a sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. After nodding off several times, he peeled himself off the floor and grunted that he was going to bed. Allen, who was reading on the window seat, had nodded and offered to brew the anise seeds Millerna had recommended that morning. Dilandau's response had been unintelligible, but Allen brewed a pot anyway.

The clay mug was hot and Allen changed hands as he went up the stairs, careful not to spill any tea on himself or the rug lining the stairs. He heard the jingle of Migs' tags and the thudding of the mutt's clubbed feet bounding up the stairs behind him. Allen turned sideways and pressed himself against the railing to let Migs pass. Migs glanced at him and gave a happy "Rowf!" as greeting, before running past him.

Celena must have come in through the window this time. One good thing about that dog was it knew when "Mama" came home, and all the noise he made let Allen know when "Mama" was home too. Celena had retired to her room early that evening, sulking about not being about to go to a wrestling match near the creek. Only boys attended those matches, and Allen didn't want his sister challenging anyone and getting caught by decent people rolling about in the mud with boys. They'd think Allen was raising a "loose woman".

Dilandau had seemed quite interested in looking out the window that night and had hogged the window seat for 30 minutes, before letting Allen have it. Tolerable Brat had probably watched his sister sneak across the yard.

Allen neared Dilandau's door and knocked.

The door opened a second later, and a groggy Dilandau glared back at him, running a hand through his hair. "What?"

"Tea." Allen held out the mug.

"You put sugar in this?"

"No, Majesty, I did not," Allen said, rolling his eyes. "Millerna says to drink this and take a warm bath, not a shower."

"Hn." Dilandau took the tea and closed the door in Allen's face.

Allen shook his head. That was gratitude for him. He went to Celena's door next, not bothering to knock. He threw the door open and glared at his muddy sister who was quietly trying to pull herself the rest of the way in the window. Big blue eyes rested on him, and she gave her best innocent grin, which wasn't convincing when she wasn't covered in mud.

Migs trotted around the room, tail wagging.

"Damn mutt!" Celena pulled herself the rest of the way in and glared at Migs who came to lick her palms. "Next time, I take you with me."

"Next time?" Allen raised his brows. "There will be no next time. You know that little Fall Cotilion the _Ladies of Astoria _is hosting that I told you, you didn't have to attend though they were nice enough to invite you? You're going. Your escort will be me, and you will wear a dress, proper shoes, and an up-sweep hairdo."

Celena's face was pale with horror. "Len, you can't be serious. Len! I didn't do anything THAT bad! It's just a little mud! I didn't even win! Look, my pockets are empty. I lost all my money. Can't that be punishment?"

"It would be if those were _your_ pockets! Those are my pants!" Allen ran both hands through his hair. He was so angry he didn't know if_ he_ would be able to get to sleep that night.

Celena at least had the decency to look ashamed. "I thought they looked funny. I should have known all that extra money couldn't have been mine."

Allen growled. "I'll have Lady Deirdre make your dress with extra ruffles and a clutch purse to match."

Allen slammed the door on Celena's wail. That would keep her from going to anymore mud matches in Allen's pants. He headed to his own room, only pausing at the sound of running bath water. He smiled.

* * *

At five after midnight, Allen tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. Tags jingled from somewhere nearby. Dammit. No matter how quiet he was, he always managed to wake the dog. Migs, once again, went through his legs and scurried into the parlor. Allen sighed, following.

Dilandau sat in the rocking chair this time, staring at the ceiling. Migs jumped up, planting his paws in Dilandau's lap. Dilandau spared the dog a glance, pushing it down and sliding onto the floor with it.

"It didn't work."

Allen blinked. He hadn't announced his presence yet, and Dilandau wasn't looking in his direction. "So I see."

Allen came to sit beside Dilandau on the floor. "Did you sleep any?"

Migs rolled onto his back, so Dilandau could scratch his belly. "An hour maybe."

"Do you want to talk about your dream?"

"Not much to talk about," Dilandau said.

"Rowf!"

"I'm not doing this all night, Mutt." Dilandau gave Migs a push and the dog rolled onto his stomach.

"I don't see why you pet him at all. It makes him want to..."

"Face it Len, the dog's here to stay. Might as well make friends with it," Dilandau said.

Allen scowled at Migs who decided at that moment to lick his privates. "I refuse to concede."

Dilandau chuckled, then yawned.

"Maybe you should try bed again," Allen said.

"I'd either fall asleep and be awake again in 30 minutes, or I'd be staring at the ceiling. So, as I see it, there's no point in moving. The view's good here. Garden's nice at night."

Dilandau's head dipped onto Allen's shoulder. "I'm so tired I'm looking at damn flowers, Len. Do something."

Allen laughed lightly. "Come on, let's get up on the couch. I want to try something."

Dilandau pouted. "I told you I don't want to move."

"I'm sure you can manage a few feet." Allen got to his feet and pulled his brother up after him. Dilandau glared at Allen, but didn't fight as Allen dragged him over to the long couch near the fireplace. A large portrait of their great-grandparents glared down at them, and Allen snorted. Dilandau's glare had nothing on Great-Grandma Eileen's.

Dilandau flopped down on one end of the light blue couch and pulled an embroidered pillow onto his lap. Allen sat down on the other end. He patted his empty lap with a hand and gestured for Dilandau to lie down.

"You gotta be kidding me." Dilandau made to stand up again, but Allen reached out and grabbed one of his arms.

"Just give it a few minutes. Come on, no one's looking but Migs'."

Dilandau groaned, then sighed, shoulders slumping. "Talk about this and die."

Allen smiled as Dilandau stretched his lanky body out over the couch and rested his head on Allen's thigh. "Lie on your back," Allen said. Dilandau shifted to get comfortable on his back.

"What now?" Dilandau asked.

"Close your eyes and count backwards from a large number."

"I don't want to..."

"Do it."

"892..."

"In your head."

"Picky," Dilandau grumbled.

"Breathe deep and easy."

Dilandau grunted, but Allen noted the changes in his breathing. Allen rested a hand on Dilandau's stomach, rubbing the flat surface in slow soothing patterns. Dilandau sighed.

"Just relax, concentrate on your counting, your breathing... relax."

Dilandau's lashes fluttered. "Dreamed about my first Alseid flight."

"You did?"

"Mmm... it was fun."

"I'll bet."

"Never got to have much fun. The only reason why I got to have it then was because it was work. I was scared they wouldn't let me do it anymore, if they found out how much I liked it. So, I tried to act like I hated it at first."

"Shh, Dilandau."

"They let me fly everyday. I'm a natural, you know? They never let me fly by myself. They didn't trust me not to run away, I guess."

Dilandau's words were slurring.

"I like training pilots. I like being around other people who like to fly. They go places; we go places."

Allen smiled. "You fly high."

"Hmm... never wanna land."

"Then don't."

No response.

"Dilandau?"

Nothing.

Allen smirked and continuing to rub Dilandau's belly. He'd stay there all night to make sure Dilandau slept through it. Allen studied his brother's pale face; exhaustion made fine lines and shadows on the smooth planes of his face. Dilandau wouldn't tell Allen exactly how long he'd gone without sleep, but Allen could tell it'd been more than a few nights.

Maybe it was a price of constant flight, and if Dilandau had no plans for landing, someone needed to be around to refuel him in the air.

* * *

The sun rose, and Allen woke with a crick in his neck. He'd fallen asleep sitting up; his head had fallen forward, his hair in his eyes. He rolled his neck and gazed down at the weight in his lap that had numbed his thigh. Dilandau still lie there, flat on his back and fast asleep.

They probably had another meeting that morning, and Dilandau probably had more work to do after it, but Allen wouldn't wake him for the world.

Teenagers: annoying, frustrating, mocking, messy, insane, worrisome... and adorable when they slept.

* * *

Author's Note: :) See, told ya more fluffy than funny, but I hope you got a smile out of it. Well... what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Anyway, let me know. Please review.

* * *


	5. Country of Bones, Part 1

* * *

Author's Note: Hey! Back again! This is actually a thirty-paged one-shot. It is set a month prior to the beginning of the sequel. I've cut if in half and will post it in two parts. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for all of the reviews and support you guys have given me :). I wish I had more time to write and update. Being a teacher kinda sucks, lol, but I do love my kids.

* * *

Country of Bones

_Gatty_

Traitors were not welcomed in Zaibach.

The first barrage of garbage taught Gatty that. It was hard to believe such civilized seeming people, in their rich garments, could behave the same way as a fuming peasant mob demanding a decrease in taxes from their king. Although, the fall of Emperor Dornkirk, or the explosion of the "blue shit" as Dallet so eloquently put it, had knocked out the power in Zaibach's innermost regions. That meant these protesting, garbage-slinging blue-bloods had been without power for nearly a year. Imagine nobles having to open windows to cool their homes and having to heat their own bath water. Preposterous. Even Gatty might have thrown a tomato or two at those he thought were at fault. Heating bath water was a pain in the ass.

"Watch it, incoming!"

Gatty was shoved to the left as something whizzed by his head, missing him by mere fractions. Yellow fruit splattered against the stone wall of a building and Gatty stared at the juicy design it dribbled across the gray surface.

"All right, that's it."

Gatty turned to face their attackers. "You kids have been following us since we came out this morning. Is there something you want to discuss with us, before we kill you?"

Four little boys and one girl in expensive silk shirts and satin breeches stained with mud and riddled with holes glared at him and the two standing on either side of him, Guimel and Miguel. Guimel had been the one to shove Gatty out of the way of the yellow bomb, but Miguel hadn't been so lucky. Splotches of yellow juice and shreds of canary pulp spotted his uniform. Miguel didn't look amused.

"What do you want, brats?" Guimel asked. Gatty had always admired Guimel's direct approaches. "We're working here. Your parents got beef with us, tell them to bring their old asses to Central Quarters. Now, go play or something."

Miguel gasped. "Go play? Look at what– now see here you little punks...."

Now, Gatty hadn't actually been serious about killing the children; he'd just wanted to scare them, but Miguel really looked ready to draw his sword. Gatty would view this as overreaction on Miguel's part, but then again, Gatty wasn't the one covered in rotten fruit, so he couldn't relate.

"Cool it, Miguel," Guimel started to say, but was interrupted by one of the children deciding to speak up.

Gatty raised a brow at the tiny crew. They stood with fists clenched at their sides, faces red. A boy, the tallest and probably the oldest moved forward, placing himself a step in front of everyone else in line. He met Gatty's gaze, and Gatty almost stepped back at the malice swirling in the boy's almond-shaped hazel eyes. He looked like...

"You killed my brother!"

...Ryuuon.

* * *

_Dilandau_

"This place has really gone to shit. I didn't believe it until now. Who knew Dumbshit and those Generals actually _did_ hold the county together." Celena paced the length of General Adelphos's office, running sturdy fingers with ragged nails over a dusty, brown coral desk.

Dilandau sat on Adelphos's red throne, thumbing through a book of military files he'd found when he and Celena had blown open Adelphos's wall safe. He looked up at his sister, brows raised. "Held the country together or held it down?"

Celena hummed. "Probably both. Zaibach probably would have done okay, if it wasn't for all that Fate and Fortune crap."

Dilandau nodded, and patted the arm of the throne, scowling at the mushroom of dust rising from the fabric. "Can you believe old Adelphos had a throne put in his office?"

"The fool thought he was a god. I'm surprised he doesn't have an altar in here," Celena said. "You gonna sit there and read all those, or can we take them with us? This place is making my skin crawl."

Dilandau smirked. "Celena Schezar, afraid to be in the office of a dead man. Never thought I'd see the day."

Celena glared. "Who says he's dead? Nobody ever found his body, or any sorcerers' bodies for that matter. I keep expecting one of them to bust in on us, you know? You don't feel it? That tingle?"

Dilandau frowned. He'd felt that tingle since the day the Crusade touched ground in Zaibach. That tingle told him there was danger and pain waiting for him around the corner. He'd felt it whenever the Madoushi were near. If he had known just being in Zaibach would bring back those feelings, he might have declined Dryden's request that he lead the reconnaissance mission. Dilandau didn't know what kind of information the man expected to still be laying around in Zaibach's capitol for them to find months after the country's fall, but it probably wasn't worth the abuse the team had been taking. Dilandau and his Slayers took the worst of it, but the locals weren't too fond of Celena, Allen or Allen's men either.

"I can leave all this here. It's just junk. All of these offices were probably cleaned out right after the Emperor went down. Anything important is long gone." Dilandau tossed the files onto the black marble floor.

Celena rocked back and forth on her heels. "Which is exactly what you told that fool Dryden. We should be scouting the neighboring territories. Madoushi are probably scattered in the mountains beyond the Tresbaine shores. Isn't there a power seat there?"

Dilandau stroked his cheek. A thin line of raised skin tickled the pad of his index finger. The battle scar that only he and Van could see, because they knew where to look for it. "There's an energist mine, but it's long since empty now. You remember that?"

"Of course I do. We slew our first dragon near there. Do you remember how hot the blood was?" Celena's grin was feral. "I remember being drenched in it, and feeling like I was burning. It got in my eyes and all I could see was red."

Dilandau shuddered. He remembered that it was nothing to grin about. "We were left to die, Celena. Half our unit was dead, the other half deserted the field."

"It was us and our sword," Celena said. "We danced for hours before we slit its belly."

Dilandau stared at his sister as her eyes glazed in reverie. She'd liked those days, when they'd lived thinking every second might be their last and that everyone was out to destroy them. She casually forgot about all the close calls when they'd sat in dark cells, clutching daggers like teddy bears, covered in mixed blood, their own and whoever tried to attack them. She forgot the terror and the pain. Thrill was often overshadowed when someone put a knife in your back, but Celena didn't recall the knives.

"Dryden needs to start a campaign. We should be smoking out sorcerers and renegade generals. You know some of the Four are alive out there. They might be building armies or new countries of their own. We need to crush them, before they get too far."

"You just want to fight, because you didn't get your two cents in, in the last war," Dilandau said, lounging on the throne.

"Neither did you," Celena shot back.

Dilandau laughed. "Neither did I? Haven't you heard the songs? Seen the plays? I'm one of the seven redeemed angels sent from the gods to save Gaia." There had only been one play, and the songs mentioned Allen and Van too, but Dilandau couldn't resist rubbing it in Celena's face.

"A puppet master. That's all you were, pulling strings behind the curtains." Celena sauntered up to the throne and placed her hands over Dilandau's on either armrest. "This time, you and me fight the whole time, at our best. Let Gaia see what we can really do. One word from you, and the Astorian Council will overrule Dryden, and call for action. Come on, you can't tell me your hand doesn't itch for your sword right now or that you don't want to jump in your Oreades and burn up a few bases."

She was right, he couldn't. He lived for action, but he also lived to win. He'd won and now he was protecting his prize: peace. But gods, peace was so freakin' boring... and Celena saw it in his eyes. He knew he saw it in hers, maybe in Allen's too.

Oh, they were related all right.

"Even if I want to, I won't instigate another war without just cause, Celena. Just knowing those bastards are probably still out there isn't enough to waste time, money and manpower chasing shadows. Astoria's still rebuilding, its army still putting itself back together. The country isn't ready for another war, and you never launch an attack from a base that can't withstand fire. You know that."

"Yeah, and our enemies know to attack bases that can't withstand fire. You think those ex-Zaibach bastards aren't keeping track of Astoria's progress? Do you really think they'll let it get back to full power before they attack?"

"I wouldn't," Dilandau said. "But, looking at the sorry states of the other countries who may be formidable opposition, I'm not expecting any attacks too soon. Any countries the generals or Madoushi may have fled too will need at least as long as Astoria to recover to be of any use to them."

"So you just want to lie and wait, like a dog?" Celena asked. She gazed around the lavish office. "You want to keep doing bullshit like this? Digging up graves and barking up empty trees? Dryden's only having us do this because his little war council is pushing for some action too, you know. So long as they see troops, especially you, moving around, they are temporarily satisfied. That's not gonna last long. I say you call for motion now, before we look like fools later when we're forced to."

Dilandau's eyes narrowed. "No one forces me to do anything, Celena. Not even you. Not anymore."

Celena growled and for a second Dilandau thought she would hit him. He tensed, ready to catch her fist. "You're more like Allen than me, you know? It's funny, because you shared a body with me for so long and we got on just fine. If Allen and I shared a body, we would have found a way to destroy each other. Or, at least, I definitely would have destroyed him. Why did we get along, Dilandau?"

"Because I kept us alive," Dilandau said through his teeth. "Your stupidity would have gotten us killed. I think something deep inside you, in the tiny region of your brain that houses the little bit of sense you have, was grateful to me. It knew that you needed someone with his head on straight to guide you. Self preservation is adhesive for many bonds."

Celena leaned forward, touching her forehead to his, eyes mean slits. "You really are a little shit, you know? Don't act like you didn't need me too. Without me, you never would have grown this marvelous backbone you're turning on me now, Little Brother. I kept us alive too."

Tension rolled off them like sweat, though the room was cool. It was amazing how the power could be out in an entire region, yet the general's suites ran off battery powered generators that held a two-year charge. But then again, it was Zaibach, and the general had been Adelphos.

"Celena, maybe you should go find Allen and let me finish up in here."

"You are finished."

Celena's eyes were an electric blue, sizzling with inner fire. How many times was she going to challenge him? He always won, but she kept getting back up and coming again, harder. One day, she was going to get hurt and he might not care so long as she didn't get up. It was getting old.

They could stare each other down all day, but Dilandau found it a stupid waste of time. "Get out of my face, Celena."

"Your face was mine. I should be the warlord."

Not this again. "Celena...."

"Lord Dilandau!"

The heavy door to Adelphos's office burst open and Viole strode in, looking troubled. He stopped, eyes widening at Dilandau and Celena so close and snarling at each other. His sword hand twitched before the fingers relaxed.

Viole had never liked Celena. He'd never told Dilandau that, but Dilandau always read it in Viole's posture and tone of voice when Celena was around.

"What is it, Viole?" Dilandau asked.

Celena showed Dilandau her teeth before pulling away from him to stand beside the throne.

A shadow crossed Viole's face and he swallowed hard. "Some people are here to see you."

Dilandau tapped his fingers on the throne. "Who are they?"

"Refina's parents."

* * *

_Dallet_

"Tell me again what Lord Dryden promised us for doing this, Shesta? I forget every time I dodge flying objects from someone calling me a homo-loser. Hey, leave me alone with your girlfriend and I'll show you who's a homo-loser, buddy!"

Dallet shook his fist at the group of young men he and Shesta passed on the street. The men sneered and looked ready to approach. Dallet wished they would.

"Calm down, Dallet," Shesta said, taking his arm and pushing him to keep walking. "We are getting paid enough to have personal manors built. Keep thinking of your own house with no mad dogs trying to run you down every other week, and you'll be fine."

Dallet glanced at Shesta. His shorter blond companion looked determined... and pissed.

"No mad dogs that bite your ass and eat your socks."

Really pissed.

Dallet and Shesta were on patrol. Zaibach's capitol once removed after Pincurl's city took the title, was called Coral; its namesake given to it because of all of the lovely imported coral worked into every stinkin' design on every building in the city. Dallet didn't want to know how much it cost to import all that coral, since the nearest ocean was a two week's trip in a Silver away. No, wait, he did want to know. He wanted to know how much Zaibach had stiffed him on his paychecks. How dare they make him double up with Guimel and have to share a community bath with six other guys, when the rich pansies in the ex-capitol got ornamented doors and windows to make the streets appear more uniform.

To say Dallet didn't feel sympathetic about the decay of the ex-capitol city, was to say that Dallet loved seeing people get their just desserts. But that probably wasn't fair. Just because the citizens were rich and spoiled and pampered and decked in coral, didn't mean that all of them had to be bad people. He shouldn't wish ill on all of Coral's citizens; he should come up with exemption clauses for certain individuals to get off on. However, Dallet was lazy at his best and petty at his worst when it came to being politically correct, so he didn't see anybody winning either way.

The Administration block was located in the center of the city. It formed a perfect "L". Gatty, Miguel and Guimel got the long side of the "L" while Shesta and Dallet got the short side. They'd meet back at Adelphos's castle–er office building. No matter how many times someone corrected him, Dallet would always refer to Adelphos's place as a castle. It was the biggest building in town, right in the center of everything. It was six stories high and made of stone and coral with spires. Dallet was surprised he didn't see a flying buttress or three. Adelphos had thought he was a king or something... and Pincurl had probably been his queen.

"We're being followed," Shesta said softly.

So? They'd been followed all damn day, by angry mobs, snotty-nosed kids throwing sticks, and stray cats. Dryden's little mission was supposed to take a week, but if the rest of the week looked like it would be reflections of the two days they'd already been there, Dallet was calling it quits. He didn't even think he'd get in trouble for leaving, if he helped pack Dilandau's bags.

The people of the city were mad. Their side lost, their leaders abandoned them, their society was going to hell, and their heroes... were traitors. But did anybody want to ask the Slayers why they were traitors? No. They just piled on the abuse. Dallet remembered riding into the city almost a day and a half ago and nearly being thrown from his spooked hose when someone hurled a metal pipe his way. They'd been too tired to cruise the streets and raid the offices then, so they'd let the people curse at them and found lodging in an inn where they had to boil the water and test the food for poison.

It was beyond time to go home. They weren't going to find anything here. This place had been left to die. Soldiers didn't leave stuff that could be found by the enemy with the dead. They took it with them. If Adelphos and any of the other Four Bastards were alive they were sitting pretty on their files. The Madoushi....

They were out there and getting ready for something. Dallet had never known evil to stay down long. Which was probably why Dr. Marie was so healthy. Anybody that laughed while jabbing a needle in your butt-cheek was hell-spawn.

"Dallet," Shesta said, voice low.

Dallet looked at Shesta again. The blond was casually looking over his shoulder. "She's still following us. The ones that don't scream usually drop off by now. Should we see if she wants something?"

Dallet frowned. Shesta was asking him? In the right mood, Shesta was known to tell Dilandau what he should do. "Is something wrong with her?" Dallet whispered.

"She's carrying something wrapped in a blanket. In any other situation, I'd say it was a child, but since we are here and surrounded by power-deprived nobles," _power deprived nobles_ said in the same tone one would use to say: pitch-fork waving loonies, "it might be a rock or a medium sized bomb."

Dallet grunted and tossed a subtle glance over his shoulder too. An average-sized young woman with hips that looked wide due to the hoop skirt she was wearing sort of floated behind them, holding a big bundle of white lacy blankets to her chest. Dallet didn't take too kindly to anything floating behind him after sharing close quarters with a ghost not long enough ago.

He stopped walking and turned to face the woman, startling her and Shesta. Shesta actually walked a few more paces forward before whirling to glare at Dallet.

The woman froze, light green eyes going wide. Brown freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks were the only things giving her small face color. "I...I .... I...."

"You... you... you. How may we help you madam?" Dallet folded his arms over chest and looked over the woman's shoulder to spy a small group forming across the street from them. Dallet squinted, wanting to see if any of the men from earlier were in that group. No such luck.

"I... My name.... You knew Biore Dulac?"

Dallet sucked in a sharp breath. Shesta cleared his throat.

"He was one of you, right? He ran away to join the army and then he was one of you!"

The woman's voice was strident. The bundle at her breasts started to wail and Dallet cringed. Gah, babies.

"Yes, ma'am. Biore Dulac was one of our number and a fine soldier." Shesta stood beside Dallet, his face a mask of professional concern. "He sacrificed his life for duty."

"That's not what I heard. I heard there was a fight and you all ran, and he got cut down in the escape. None of you went back for him because you wanted to save your own skin. You left him to die."

Dallet saw Shesta practically deflate. He moved closer, but couldn't offer him any more support than that in public. Soldiers had to look strong.

"We...."

"No one was left to die. The parameters of the mission were given and everyone had a choice to accept or decline them. Biore was a good guy. He ran with the mission and because of him, we're alive. If we could have pulled him out of there, we would have."

The woman shook her head angrily, tears rolling down her cheeks and leaving ugly black stains of mascara all over her face. "You... you...."

"Hey, all right. Who are you, lady? Biore's parents ain't from the city, and he didn't have any sisters. He didn't talk about having a girl either, so who are you to come at us...."

"I was his fiancé! He told me he would marry me, and then he ran off!"

Dallet blinked, and looked to Shesta for guidance. Shesta looked equally stumped, and miserable.

"Biore couldn't have had a fiancé. He talked to as many girls as Guimel and me," Dallet uttered and Shesta nodded.

"Perhaps, we're not talking about the same person," Shesta suggested.

Which seemed plausible given what had been said and the facts they knew, but... how many Biore Dulac's could there be?

"No, we're talking about the same bastard that got me pregnant and said he'd marry me and be a father to this child!"

Dallet's mouth fell open and Shesta coughed.

Oh.

So, they _were_ talking about the same Biore Dulac after all.

* * *

_Viole _

Refina had looked just like her mother. Viole's heart stopped when the red-haired woman had stalked into the foyer demanding an audience with Dilandau or as she had called him: The Albino Psychopath who'd Seduced Her Daughter. Viole had almost called her "Refi", before he noticed the grays at her temples and the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. The resemblance was creepy, but she wasn't Refina.

Refina's dad was a short man with freckles and a bald spot only a helmet could fully hide. He seemed to shrink in the presence of his wife. Viole had hardly noticed him.

Refina's mother stamped her feet and waved her arms, shrieking at Viole in languages he didn't understand. Shesta should have been there. All those weeks of Border Patrol had made him semi-multi-lingual... and semi- ill-tempered. Celena's dog taking a nip out of his bum and chewing up the contents of his sock drawers didn't help that any. Viole was waiting to see that dog's carcass swinging from a flagpole. If Shesta didn't get him, someone else would. The castle now had a "No Dog" rule.

"Ah....uh....ah...." Viole offered as Mrs. Jonte raved. "He's.... I don't.... I'll get him."

That pleased her. Her little mouth closed but her hard green eyes stayed on him as he moved away. He looked over his shoulder every few seconds as he walked to the ridiculously huge, arched doorway of Adelphos's office. Honestly, had the man thought he was some kind of princess or something? His building had more riches and fancy antiques than Grandma Castelloni's shrine to herself, sans the doilies. Grandma loved doilies... and owls, creepy stuffed owls with jewels for eyes that stared at you when you stole cookies from the kitchen.

Adelphos's framed portraits of himself in different poses in different settings of military conquest were almost just as creepy. He didn't dare go in the man's private quarters. There might be statues.

"Lord Dilandau!"

He pushed the door to the office open and started at the reek of hot tension. Dilandau and Celena were nose to nose, glaring at one another, both of them looked close to throwing punches and drawing weapons. Viole was ready to draw his sword and be of assistance. Dilandau could take Celena in a fair fight, but he was sitting with her leaning over him this time.

Red and blue eyes stared at him. Celena moved to stand at Dilandau's side, like a servant, an evil, conniving servant that would slip poison into her master's wine.

"What is it, Viole?" Lord Dilandau's voice was light, a tone he used when he was pissed about something, but trying to hide it.

Celena's gaze was dark. She was pissed about something and not trying to hide it. She was probably upset that Viole interrupted them. Had she wanted to fight Dilandau? They sparred in the training rooms and in melefs on the field, always taking it two steps too far, and they acted like mad jackals or something in conferences, snarling at each other for territory. If Dilandau made a point, Celena had an argument. Dilandau usually won, and Celena didn't like it. Celena was banned from meetings of any kind as a result, and she was never put on any team Dilandau coordinated– until now, because it was Zaibach.

"There are some people here to see you." Viole swallowed hard. It was hard holding Celena's eyes, but he'd be damned if he looked away. She teased him, called him the 'pansy'. Told him Dilandau only let him in the group for comic relief. He never told Dilandau about any of it. Dilandau and his sister had a hard enough time getting along; Viole didn't want to make it worse, especially if some of it was true. Lots of people let it slip that Lord Dilandau had chosen him, because he was funny. So what? Lord Dilandau didn't make him Elite for his jokes. Viole had earned his spot.

"Who are they?"

"Refina's parents."

Dilandau gripped the arms of the chair. "Who's parents?"

"Refina's."

Viole would have gone to Dilandau, if Celena wasn't standing right there. Rotten bitch might trip him or something. Honestly, Viole questioned Miguel's taste. Viole would have preferred that Miguel really had been sweet on Van versus him "seeing" Celena.

Dilandau slumped in the throne, looking small. Celena's glare dimmed and she placed a hand on Dilandau's shoulder. She leaned to his ear and whispered something that made Dilandau go rigid. He sat up straight, eyes blazing.

"The hell, Celena! What kind of shit is that to say about...."

"I was just trying to make you feel better! You can't blame yourself for the shortcoming's of a soldier! If she was any good, she would be here. If she hadn't been sniffing after our ass all those years, she might have learned more in sword practice! Dumb girl had been there since the near beginning and never advanced beyond Second String! Second Losers, more like it...."

Viole jumped, eyes going wide as Dilandau lunged at his sister. He sprang like a tiger from the throne, about to grab his prey by the throat with his teeth. The twins hit the marble floor rolling, neither one of them wanting to end up on bottom. Viole rocked on the balls of his feet, ready to run for the door to call for Gaddes or Kyo, or ready to run to the fight if Dilandau threw Celena off. He wanted to get a kick or six in too!

Let Miguel get mad at Viole for roughing up his she-man; Viole didn't care. A mad Miguel was amusing as hell.

They struck the desk and Viole heard Celena grunt in pain. That desk was big as a bear and hard as...as coral. The bruise on her back wasn't gonna be pretty. Dilandau was on top, straddling her, keeping her legs pinned, and shaking her, beating her into the ground. "Don't you ever refer to any of my soldiers as anything less than exemplary. If you can't, don't refer to them at all!"

"They weren't just your soldiers! They were mine too! I have the same right as you talk about...."

"You have no right!" Dilandau snarled in her face. "They saw me. They called me 'sir'. If you had been there, like you are now, do you think they would have respected you the same? Even if you let them know which ones you picked and played your stupid games, trying to turn them against each other? No, Celena, dear. No. It would be just like now, just like this, with them calling me 'sir' and glaring at you behind your back."

Viole felt cold. Dilandau never talked to Celena that way. He never threw the Dragonslayers in her face, like she threw them in his. Maybe this was it. Viole, Shesta and Guimel had a bet on this. Dilandau was much better when it came to keeping his temper in check, but he was nobody's angel. Celena was going to push him too far....

"Shut up, Dilandau!" Celena screamed, her voice cracking. She didn't fight Dilandau anymore, she just let him bash her back into the ground. She kept her head rolled forward so that it didn't strike the floor too.

Ah shit. Ok. Dilandau was righteously angry at his sister, but he'd never forgive himself if he seriously hurt her. He was slipping into a rage and in a minute he might not know what he was doing. Viole sighed and stalked to the fight, making his footsteps deliberately loud. Dilandau could not think he was sneaking up on him. "Dilandau! Dilandau! You're gonna knock her out. Let her go."

Dilandau stopped slamming Celena into the floor, but he kept clutching her shoulders. Viole could see the skin turning red under Dilandau's crushing fingers. Celena was going to be black and blue tomorrow. He shook Celena one last time. "Keep their names out of your mouth. Do you understand me?"

Celena glared, lips pressed closed. She was gonna spit on him and then it would be over.

"They were my team too. You can't stop me."

The twins' heaving breaths harmonized, in perfect sync with one another, their profiles nearly the same. Neither one of them moved. Viole could practically hear their hearts pounding, veins throbbing. Dallet would walk in and accuse them of twin-cest, sick pervert, but anyone who hadn't seen the whole thing might think the same... but only if the twins closed their eyes.

Those eyes screamed murder; they wanted to inflict pain. They were in pain.

"They were imperfect. Some of them never should have been in uniform, but you passed them. It was my fault for not taking control and telling you they weren't good enough. Do not torture yourself over lo...."

"Finish that sentence, Celena." Dilandau's voice was icy enough to make Viole shiver. "Go on, say what you want to say."

"I'm trying to help you, you idiot! Ever since we came here you've been moping around like this mission is some sort of funeral! I want you to get over it! So long as you let this float over your head, you'll be weak."

"Strong enough to beat you."

"But not as strong as you can be. What did we learn, Dilandau? What did we learn? No attachments! You're making yourself sick over attachments you shouldn't have. Don't think no one's noticed what you're doing. Since we got word of this mission, you don't eat, you don't sleep; you obsess."

Dilandau's fingers trembled.

"Beat me up, if you want to get it out, but get it the hell out, so we can get some work done! For some reason, the king keeps putting you in charge, but if you can't handle it...."

Dilandau let Celena go suddenly and she fell back onto the floor, hitting her head. She stared up at him, a bit dazed but smiling. "Come at me again like that and I'll fight you for real."

"Say things like that and I'll kill you for real," Dilandau said. He stood up, brushing himself off. Viole took a step back, not able to see him face.

Celena lay sprawled on the ground like she'd meant to lie there and take a rest. Her face was almost serene, if demon's did serene. "I only do it because I care, Dilandau."

"I wish you'd care less," Dilandau said softly. "I don't like what you do to me."

"Someone has to remind you of what you are, of what we are. We could take this world by storm, if you'd stop playing around."

"Saving civilization is playing around?"

Celena grinned.

"You're sick."

"Yeah, so are you. Eat something before you pass out, huh?"

Dilandau stepped over her, going for the door. Viole stared then rushed to follow. The Jontes were probably still out there, if they hadn't been scared away by the sounds of the fight. Dilandau didn't need to run into them alone, if he was.... like Celena said. Viole shook his head. That bitch. In her own twisted, maniacal way, she was a good, observant sister. Viole had been too wrapped up in his own reservations about returning to Zaibach to notice Dilandau's. But why did she have to do things like _that _to get Dilandau's attention. Why couldn't she be like a sane person and say, "Bro, I'm worried about you. Here, I made you a sandwich"?

Oh, that's right, because she was Celena, the twice psycho ex-Zaibach warlord and newly psycho Astorian captain. Dryden was the psycho heir apparent who had given her the title, not that she outranked any of them, of course. Dryden was psycho, not stupid contrary to Sir Allen's belief.

Viole fell into step beside his friend, then moved to stand in front of the door so that Dilandau couldn't pass through it and so he could see his face. Dilandau never cried when Viole thought he might, so dry eyes didn't surprise him, but the emptiness in them did. "Hey."

"Not in the mood, Viole."

Celena chuckled in the background and Viole growled.

"Captain," he said calmly. "Why don't you go clean up in the old General's bathroom huh? You're looking kind of... rough."

Calling rank was a low blow, a sucker punch to Celena's nonexistent nuts. Captains had to answer to many superiors and Lieutenant Colonel Viole loved asking questions. Viole knew the girl could rip him apart, but he wasn't going to let her patronize Dilandau on his watch, and..... He watched Dilandau tense. He didn't want to break up another fight.

He waited until he heard Celena's feet retreating toward the back of the room and the squeak of the bathroom door being opened. "You ok?"

"I wanted to kill her, Viole. If you hadn't stopped me, I don't know what would have happened." Dilandau spoke without looking at Viole. He gazed past him, staring at the dark wood and black coral of the door.

"You would have stopped yourself," Viole said firmly, touching Dilandau's shoulder. He was shaking.

"She wouldn't have let me stop myself. She wants me to go all out, so she can go all out," Dilandau said.

Viole frowned.

"She wants to know who's better for real," Dilandau said. "It's bothering her. She wishes that she could be Valeska again, and that I'd fight her not knowing who she was. It's a contest."

"Yeah, but you knew that," Viole said. "She challenges you all the time. She's gonna push you and push you until you kick her ass beyond all reason. You can't tell me you aren't ready for that. You know it's coming."

Dilandau 's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, but it doesn't mean I like it. And... this... it's not the place for it. This is Zaibach, enemy territory. Soil of the soldiers that killed our friends, Viole. She was right about one thing. It is a funeral. We never had one for them, we never saw their graves, and visiting grave sites.... It's an experience. I visit my mother's grave a lot. It helps. I want this to help us, but she won't leave me alone."

Viole blinked. The mission was a funeral? Viole had given the others a "funeral" aboard the Vione. He assumed the others had too, and then there was their revenge. But, Viole supposed, they had never grieved all together, and maybe here they could bury some bones.

"Do you want to hold some sort of ceremony? I mean, we'd probably have to do it outside of town, but...."

Dilandau shook his head. "No ceremony, but I'd like..." He swallowed. "...to speak with Refina's parents."

Viole sighed. "About that, Refina's mom is...."

Dilandau stared at him and Viole stopped talking. He pushed the door open and let Dilandau out before him. They were two steps into the hall when Kyo and Gaddes got in their way.

Sir Allen's tall first hand frowned at them. "What was all that noise just now? What happened to you, Silver Boss?"

Viole grimaced. Celena wasn't the only one who looked rough. Dilandau's hair and clothes looked like he had taken a roll in the hay, and since Van wasn't around, eyebrows raised.

Dilandau blinked, seeming to realize for the first time he looked like he'd won a fight with a bull– or his sister. He smoothed his hair and straightened his clothes. Good thing he was wearing long sleeves or everyone would see already darkening bruises. A feather could leave a mark on that pale skin.

"Celena and I had a little argument," Dilandau said smoothly. "It's over now."

Kyo guffawed, holding his big stomach. "You give her what for, Colonel Kid?"

Dilandau popped his knuckles. "Maybe."

Gaddes sighed. "You two know better than that."

"Hey, she used fightin' words. If I didn't know she could kick my ass, I would have jumped on her too. As it was, I was ready to assist."

Kyo ruffled Viole's hair. Viole liked Kyo. He was like a big brother bear. He drank like a fish, sang like a braying donkey, cussed like a soldier, but had a heart of gold... and pockets full of candy. When everyone else was too busy to play with him, Viole ran with Kyo and Reeden in the Soldier's Get Away. Kyo always let Viole be his partner in Spades. Though it was more Viole doing Kyo a favor cause Kyo sucked.

"There's two people out in the hall that say they're waiting for...er.... well, she meant you, Colonel Kid. Nobody else here fits.... well.... she meant you. That little lady's scary. I don't know that you should...."

Dilandau nodded. "That's Mrs. Jonte; we have an appointment."

Dilandau tried to walk past the two seasoned soldiers, but Gaddes caught him by the elbow, pulling him back. "You all right?"

A burst of shouts filtered from the foyer into the hall.

"I'm tired of waiting! I'm going..."

"Ma'am, you can't...." Reeden? Wasn't Reeden supposed to be with Sir Allen?

"Ma'am, if you don't mind my asking, who are you–"

"I do mind you asking, Captain Orgasm! You think you can come in here with your blond hair cascading all past your ass and ask me– "

Oh, Sir Allen was here too?

A child's shriek pierced the air, making Viole's skin crawl.

"Hey, does anybody know anything about babies? We need some help here! Stick something in its mouth or something, Shesta!"

Dallet and Shesta?

"This is kidnaping! You're killers and kidnappers! Put me down!"

"Not until you wash all of this yellow crap off my–"

Miguel? Viole grinned.

"This is not about revenge, Miguel!" Gatty.

"It's not? Those little bratskick _hard_!" Guimel.

Hey, the gang's all here.

"What is this? A conference? The person I came to see is the only person I don't see!" Mrs. Jonte.

"Refi?" Gatty.

"You knew my daughter? Are you the rest of the orgy party that brainwashed my darling Refina?"

"Orgy party?" Dallet.

"Hey, who's baby?" Guimel. "Give it here; you can't hold a kid like that, Shes!"

Viole, Gaddes, Kyo and Dilandau stared at each other.

"Should we go out the backdoor?"Viole asked.

"There is no backdoor," Dilandau said, softly.

"We came to see Lord Dilandau." Shesta and Dallet.

"We came to see him!" Gatty, Guimel and Miguel.

"I came to see him first!" Mrs. Jonte.

"This is gonna get ugly," Kyo said. "Maybe we should go in the office and barricade the door. At least from that woman."

"I think she'd kick it down. Besides, Celena's in there and I don't think– " _putting Celena and Dilandau back in the same room together so soon is a good idea_. Viole chewed his lip and glanced at Dilandau. Gaddes still held Dilandau's elbow, frowning.

"You're shaking, Silver Boss."

Right. Celena said.... "He needs to eat."

"Not right now, I've got screaming masses to appease," Dilandau said, sounding vaguely amused.

"He's in Adelphos's office! Whoever gets there first, gets him!"

"Oh no," Viole breathed.

"Oh hell," Kyo moaned.

"Oh—oh..."

Viole and Kyo scowled at Gaddes. What kind of response was "Oh–oh".... Oh.

Gaddes sat on the floor, cradling an unconscious Dilandau.

"Oh."

* * *

Author's Note: Well, that was part 1. I'll put part 2 up soon, but... what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Any way you liked it, let me know. Please review!

* * *


	6. Country of Bones, Part 2

Author's Note: Hey all! Thank you for all of the reviews. I was glad to hear from you :). To Joy, thank you for the review, but you did not leave me your e-mail address for me to reply back to you. Mine is: . Well, this is part 2 of Country of Bones. I was originally just going to make it a two-parter, but I did my math wrong when I divided the story up, and this part would have been much too long, lol. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Country of Bones, Part 2

_Shesta_

Thanks to his experience on Border Patrol Shesta knew six ways to say idiot: Viole, Gatty, Miguel, Guimel, Dallet, and his all time favorite, Dilandau.

"I'm not even going to ask you to give me a time estimate of how long you were an idiot this time," Shesta said as he passed his friend a tall glass of cow's milk.

Dilandau accepted the milk with raised brows. "You know, Shesta, you have a long way to grow before you fill Marie's bra, but that was pretty damn convincing."

Shesta growled. He was tired of the guys making cracks about him becoming more and more Marie-like when he tended to them. Shesta couldn't help it if he was the only one, besides Dilandau, who was capable of decent field doctoring and who'd taken advantage of having Dr. Marie so close. He and Princess Millerna studied under the Red-Witch and, before she'd left, she deemed them worthy of saving the idiots from themselves. Shesta couldn't help it if working on his teammates after their less than brilliant affairs made him sympathize with Dr. Marie's frustration.

"Eat that sandwich and drink all of that milk. There's more where it came from. What were you thinking? You know you of all people cannot miss meals."

Shesta had been the one Viole had called for, dragging him into the back hall with Sir Allen hot on his heels. The pandemonium in the foyer had quieted a bit at the alarm on Viole's face, but started anew at their departure. They'd taken a back stairwell up to General Adelphos's private quarters to let their dear Colonel Idiot recover in peace. He'd been awake and tracking well when Shesta had knelt beside him on the cold marble floor. Dilandau had smirked and tried to make light of the situation. Sir Allen had looked ready to strangle him. Sir Allen knew of a few ways to say idiot too.

"I took extra vitamins and supplements," Dilandau said, not sounding as if he was even convincing himself with his argument. "I thought.... I thought I'd be ok, until I got here. That maybe I'd feel better about things and...." Dilandau sighed. "Shes, it's not that I'm not eating enough or sleeping, it's that I can't eat or sleep. I keep thinking about that day and what I could have done differently to have stopped it. It keeps me up; it makes my stomach churn. I keep running scenarios and the best one that keeps_ it_ from happening reflects failure on my part as leader."

Shesta sat beside Dilandau on the black divan. "What?"

Dilandau turned slightly toward him, their knees touching. "The Madoushi came to take me and I–I freaked out. It–that wasn't unusual. They scared the living shit out of me. But I was always alone when they came. That day, Viole was with me. If–If I could have cleared my head for one minute, I would have surrendered myself to them. They would have taken me and I would have come back later to a full regiment awaiting my command. I keep seeing myself go with them and then everything's ok."

Shesta felt his eyes fill momentarily before he blinked all traces of moisture away. "Dilan, how long have you been running these scenarios?"

Dilan– Celena's nickname for Dilandau that just seemed to stick. It was simple, it was less Zaibach and more Schezar. Dilandau was partial to it; it made him seem softer somehow, more an equal than a person to strive to be or please. Shesta and the others used it like someone else might use "buddy".

Shesta had always known that deep down Dilandau blamed himself for what happened; how could he not? It was an attribute instinctive to all leaders. When something failed, even if you weren't there, didn't know about it, didn't order it done, it was your fault. No matter how ridiculous. Though, Dilandau's guilt, this time, was not ridiculous.

Shesta marveled at Dilandau's ability to mentally create dozens of possible, rational scenarios in any situation in a matter of seconds. He was like a machine in that regard. He could make split second decisions that yielded the lowest same-side casualty rates on record in Astoria. Dryden would have appointed him General, Chief of Staff, months ago, if Dilandau didn't crave field work. Shesta bowed down to, but did not envy Dilandau in, that skill.

It made mistakes all the more horrible.

"I don't know, on and off since the end of the war, when Celena came back and I was getting better, and Allen wanted to be a family. Everything was for the war then, the war and not dying. It bugged me, revenge made me feel better, but when I could think again–when my mind was only for me.... I just play through things. I saw more than...than _that_, but that kept coming back, and coming back, and now it won't go away. I made my first fatal error as a leader that day, and it wasn't even in battle. I don't know how you can trust me."

Shesta slung an arm around Dilandau and pulled him close. "Dilan, you're not perfect, ok? You were very sick and half delirious most of the time then, because of what those bastards did to you. Not only that, but they conditioned you to fear them. So add irrational programmed fear to serious illness and delirium. You were completely incapacitated."

"But...."

"If you want to blame anyone, blame us. Once they drugged you, they could have taken you away without any resistance from you. You were unconscious. We couldn't let them take you. Every time they did and you came back again, something was wrong, something was missing from you. We—I honestly thought that they might not bring you back that time. If I had fallen that day, I would have been proud to die for my cause and I'd want you to honor me...."

"Bullshit." Dilandau cut Shesta off, and Shesta stared at him.

"What?"

"Bull... shit. When you're dying, you don't think about honor and pride. You think: I don't really want to die. You regret it. You regret everything. You admit how weak you are. You beg. You plead. I know how it feels, so don't feed me empty lines about dying with a smile. It doesn't happen like that."

Shesta couldn't blink the moisture away this time. He held Dilandau tighter. He hated hearing about how scared his friend had been. Lord Dilandau took everything like a man. He was their example. But Shesta wasn't dealing with Lord Dilandau and hadn't been for a long time.

"So maybe there's no real honor in death. Nobody wanted to die that day, but we all knew there was a good chance that we could. It didn't stop anybody. Maybe they regretted their decisions when it was too late, but we can't dishonor the fact that they initially made the decision with great intentions. They loved you. You would have chosen to do the same for one of us."

"I _should_ have chosen to do the same," Dilandau said simply. "I can't forgive myself for not being able to control my fear. I know they conditioned me to fear them, but I didn't have to let it be that successful, not with you at stake. I don't care how badly off I was. You are my...."

"Friends," Shesta said. "We're your friends and we couldn't let anything bad happen to you. All we saw was that those men wanted to hurt you. We ran with you with hopes that we could all escape, but we weren't optimistic about it. Maybe it was a poorly executed plan and we should have surrendered as soon as the alarms went off. Maybe the Madoushi would have given you back to us and we could have gone on, still within Zaibach. However...."

Dilandau turned his head to study Shesta. He looked slightly dazed, as he usually did when his brain worked overtime. He had bags under his eyes big enough to carry Silvers and his hands trembled on his knees. How long had he looked like this and Shesta hadn't noticed?

"However?" Dilandau asked.

"Folken sent Pearce to us. He didn't trust the Madoushi. He didn't think they'd bring you back. He thought they were going to keep tearing you up until they killed you. Run scenarios of what the Madoushi might have done to you then, knowing what you know now. Then, think about how it would affect us, ALL of us, if something happened to you, if you'd died with the Madoushi and we never even knew what became of you. Run scenarios on us working with a different leader in Zaibach, knowing how we feel, and they felt, about you. Make sure you include Folken in that too."

Dilandau flinched, dropping his chin to his chest.

"Yeah." Shesta rubbed his friend's back. "Not much better is it? I bet we all would have died in the war, fighting for the wrong side."

"Maybe if I hadn't let you attach yourselves to me...." Dilandau murmured softly. Shesta didn't interrupt him, knowing he was running more mental scenarios. "No, no, no...."

Shesta continued his rubbing until Dilandau quieted and slumped against him.

"I can't save them in the long run."

"No," Shesta said softly. "Not in the long run. The only thing that may have saved us all was if we'd deserted Zaibach sooner, all of us. But how were we to know to do that? The Vione was our home and Zaibach was our country. We were playing with lit firecrackers in the disguise of candles. No one noticed the crackling tip until it was at the end of its string. It blew up in all of our faces, even Folken's, and we saved what we could."

"Even if we'd made different decisions that day, regarding positions and such, all that would have affected is who and how many Slayers would be here today. Some of us would be gone, and maybe one or two of the others would stand in our places... and there wouldn't be nearly so many."

"In the end, our Second and Third String made the right call. They judged who might survive and gave that number the best protection they could. You're not the only one who can come up with good scenarios. Refina was great at it too."

Dilandau's breathing hitched. "She was. I was going to make her First String, but Second String needed a leader. She knew that. She told me as much, when I promoted Guimel over her. I made the right choice. Guimel reached his potential and inspired Dallet to reach his in First String, and Refina was an excellent team lead for Second String whom I could trust to operate separately on missions."

"You should trust her again," Shesta said. "Refi usually knew what she was doing."

Dilandau chuckled. "Yeah. But... I still see a failure for not buying them more time. They still didn't have to die that day, not like that, and I want to... apologize to them. I told Viole earlier that coming here, to me, is like finally attending a funeral. I'm...."

Burying bones. So long as you're not digging them up.

"That's good."

Dilandau nodded into his shoulder.

"And tell me why you didn't tell us you couldn't sleep or eat again."

"I thought I'd be able to when I got here and said, 'I'm sorry,' closer to their homes. Folken had their bodies and ribbons sent back to their homes. A few of them were from here, and I want to visit graves before we leave. I want to ride out further and see all the graves, make it a kind of homage trip. I mean, we're not going to find any top secret files here. I didn't protest this mission, because I needed to come."

"You should have said something," Shesta said. "There are plenty of things we could have done to help you sleep, and as for eating...."

"I'm not drinking anymore of that nutrient crap Marie and Folken had me on." Dilandau made a face.

"There are other ways to get you to eat," Shesta said, nodding at the sandwich Dilandau had eaten half of. "Small portions every few hours and plenty of milk. We'll be feeding you again in two hours, Colonel."

"Acknowledged, Lt Colonel."

They laughed.

"We've done our duty as far as reconnaissance goes, but we've got a week longer to be here. We can see the ones in town tomorrow and ride out to see the others. We can meet Sir Allen and his crew back here, or have them meet us at the last site at the end of the week."

Dilandau nodded again. "And something else."

"What?"

"We should meet with their families too. I... never even thought of that until Refina's parents came today. I keep forget that you guys have families. Shes, did you want to see your family? Does Gatty? I know how Guimel, Miguel, and Viole feel about their folks, and we see Dallet's all the time, but you?"

Shesta felt a small pang in his stomach as he did whenever he thought of the poor family he'd left behind. There had been no hard feelings. Money was tight, and children left the nest earlier and earlier to go out into the world and ease the burden off their parents in his village. Shesta had been a little younger than his older siblings had been when they'd left, but no one had grabbed him around the knees and begged him to stay.

"Maybe one day I'll go back and show them what I did with myself. I'm sure they already know, and I hope they knew me well enough not to believe the stories. One thing Miguel should be happy about is that he's not really from Zaibach, so if he ever decides to go back home, he won't have to worry about people calling him traitor."

Dilandau nudged him. "That bothers you?"

"It bothers me that they don't look beyond the stigma to see if there might have been a reason we left. They don't look at how we flourished n Astoria and wonder why we were a batter team at 1/3 our number. Maybe Zaibach was stifling us, holding us back. Maybe people fight better when they have a better cause. All they see is their destroyed country and blame us, instead of the ones who ran them into the ground. It's their fault they were so dependent on Dornkirk and the Generals and the Madoushi and the rest of the military, not ours. We're only guilty of not being blind and freeing ourselves at a very steep price."

"But we never went broke, huh?" Dilandau said.

"Nah," Shesta agreed. "We've always got spare change."

"It's cold in here."

"Because you're anemic," Shesta said.

"I'm tired."

"Because you're an anemic insomniac," Shesta said.

"I want to go see Refi's parents now."

"Because you're a masochistic anemic insomniac," Shesta said. "I would have slipped something in your milk, but you'd never trust me again."

Dilandau straightened up to glare at him. "Damn straight. You'd go on report, Lt."

"So I would," Shesta agreed. "Mrs. Jonte is a bit...energetic, and prepare yourself. She looks a lot like Refina."

"You're not going to argue with me about going to see them?" Dilandau sounded suspicious. "You didn't actually put something in my milk, did you? I'll kill you."

Shesta laughed as Dilandau pushed him away.

"No, I didn't. I promise. I just know you won't sleep until you dive head first into the pandemonium downstairs. Let's see, there's the Jontes, there's Biore's baby, and a little boy who Miguel has hog-tied that looks curiously like Ryuuon."

Dilandau's eyes were very large in his face. "You... seriously neglected to mention some of that when I asked you what had been going on down there."

Shesta shrugged. "Getting you off the floor and kicking your mother hen big brother out of here were top priority then. Honestly, Sir Allen is worse than an old lady. I was going to draw my sword if he got in my way one more time."

"Where did you send him anyway?"

"After your sister. Viole said you two had a fight."

Dilandau grunted. "She was being a bitch."

No surprise there. "The bruises on your arms are from her?"

"She's got a matching set."

So long as that was the case.

"You two can't keep snapping at each other like that. One or the both of you is going to end up hurt," Shesta said. Especially since neither could control themselves for long in their piss wars. "Maybe...."

"Maybe we'll work it out," Dilandau said flatly. That was his "drop the subject now" tone.

Fine.

"If you think you can stand, we can descend."

Dilandau laughed. "You sound so doomed."

"You weren't there." How could he know that downstairs contained the fires of the Sixth Hell?

Dilandau stood up and stretched carefully. He downed the last of his milk in one gulp. "I'm ready."

Shesta groaned. He didn't know if he was.

Dilandau's brow wrinkled. "Shesta?"

"Yes?"

"Did you say: Biore's baby?"

* * *

_Guimel_

"Oh my gods! How do you turn it off?" Viole shouted.

Baby B, or Biore's bastard, tore down the hall in only a diaper, bowed legs pumping, with Viole chasing after it.

Guimel and Dallet watched in morbid fascination. "Who do you think is gonna win, Viole or the baby?" Dallet asked.

They looked at each other.

"The baby."

Down the hall there was a crash, a howl from Viole, and mad giggling from Baby B.

"That child is missing something." Miguel sat on a fat couch stuffed with bird feathers. Adelphos's trophy room was a man's dream come to life. No woman had ever set foot in this room, Guimel was sure. It was decked in red and blue and black. Heads of dead animals glared at them from mounts on the walls, their skins lined the floor in striped, spotted and solid patterns. Lamps on small coral tables were carved out of ivory. The room was circular and long couches hugged the walls, designed to contour to its curve.

"It's mother," Dallet suggested. "I still can't believe that broad practically threw the thing at me and took off. It started screaming bloody murder as soon I touched it."

"No." Miguel shook his head. "Not a mother. It's something every young child has, but this one doesn't." Miguel rubbed his chin. He was thinking hard.

"Hey, don't burn yourself out over there. I smell smoke."

Miguel leveled Guimel with a cool look and Guimel grinned back.

"Stop antagonizing me, Guimel. There is a vital element missing... Ah, I've got it." Miguel smacked his fist and palm together. "Where is the child's nanny?"

Guimel's mouth fell open in disbelief and Dallet choked. They looked at each other again.

A nanny?

"Damn nobles."

"What?" Miguel looked so confused Guimel almost took pity on him. Almost.

"Did you have a nanny, Miguel?" Guimel asked.

"Of course," Miguel said. "Nice, simple old thing. She had her own rooms beside the nursery. She died when I was 10, and we buried her in the family plot, though I'm surprised there was room."

The last part was said under his breath, but Guimel still heard it.

Miguel frowned. "You didn't have a nanny, Guimel?"

Guimel shook his head. "Nope."

"Well...." Miguel looked lost. "Who bathed you and changed your clothes?"

"Our mothers did," Dallet answered for Guimel.

"My mom did while my Dad was around, after he bailed my older sister and brother took turns," Guimel amended.

"When did they have the time?" Miguel crossed his legs.

"Dammit, I order you to stop now, baby! Stop! Heel! Sit! Here, look, I've like got... crunchy, sweet things! You can... AH! It's got teeth!"

Poor Viole. It was really too bad he drew the short stick. He didn't know what he was doing at all.

"They made the time, Miguel," Dallet said. "Both of my parents did, anyway."

Miguel rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "I bet Mrs. and Mr. Jonte took care of Refina that way too."

Guimel blinked. Mrs. and Mr. Jonte were in the parlor with Ryuuon's little brother and Gatty, munching on tea snacks and drinking imported coffee. Too bad none of them really knew how to fix coffee. It was probably terrible, but it was a better option than tea. Adelphos's tea bins were full of ants. The coffee was better preserved as were the expensive cookies in fabric lined boxes stored in the back of two steel pantries.

Gatty had drawn the longest stick, meaning he got one-on-one time with Refina's parents first. They had all agreed that they wanted to go in and talk to the Jontes as a group, but they couldn't do that without Shesta and Dilandau. Mrs. Jonte had refused to be sent off to another room to wait unless one of them went with she and her husband. Like she thought they were going to run off or something.

"Do you ever wonder what kind of a parent you'll be?" Miguel asked.

Guimel shuddered. "I try not to think about it much."

"Because you're afraid you'll have to find out one day soon," Dallet said, slapping Guimel on the back. "I have to tell you I always expected you to be the first daddy. Biore, well he was smooth and all, but... Ok. All right. Never mind."

Guimel raised an eyebrow at Dallet. "Yeah that's what I thought, or we wouldn't be talking about the same Biore Dulac. The girls we didn't sleep with, he did, and he was contraceptive shy."

"Contraceptive shy?" Miguel asked. "You mean, he didn't...."

"Some kind of superstition about parts rusting off or something. He always trusted the girl to get rid of it later."

"The Drink?" Miguel asked. "Biore expected his...conquests to swallow an abortion concoction?"

Dallet nodded. "They had to agree to do it, before he'd even talk to them. Guess one mess up was enough, huh."

"That's terrible," Miguel said. "You two certainly don't– do you?"

Guimel and Dallet glanced at Miguel and he paled.

"Only once," Dallet shrugged. "And she suggested it, not me. She didn't like the way it felt with contraceptives."

"Twice," Guimel admitted. "Once was her decision; once was mine. It's not that uncommon or disgusting of a process Miguel. They drink a vile mixture the next morning and life goes on. It's not like there was really a baby or anything and they kept it that way."

"But there was a chance," Miguel said with a sigh. "I wouldn't let anyone destroy that chance. I think...."

"You think?" Guimel pressed.

"I was the last Lavariel. My brother Diego was supposed to be the last Lavariel. I happened many years after Mother and Father completed their family. Father made her Drink after each time, but one time, she forgot. She was planning multiple parties, and it slipped her mind. And here I am."

"Oh shit, Miguel. We didn't know that," Dallet said. "We wouldn't have even started talking about this. Sorry."

Guimel nodded. "I mean, we weren't saying that the Drink is right or anything, but...."

"It gets rid of unwanted things born from unfavorable circumstances. I understand," Miguel said. "It's just knowing that you fall in the category of an 'unwanted thing' is not a good feeling."

Guimel stared at Miguel. His face was as cool and handsome as ever. It was like he was talking about the weather. He didn't care. He was so beyond caring about his parents or his family. Miguel had grown up in a cold place, and sometimes, though Miguel had been rich and pampered by servants, Guimel thought that maybe his life with an absent-minded, flighty, dependent mother might have been a bit better. Miguel hadn't slept with a stuffed animal. He'd slept with a dagger.

What would Viole do right now? Hug Miguel or crack a joke? Maybe both.

The door slammed open and there stood Viole holding an upside down baby girl by her ankles. Baby B laughed and wiggled. Her honey brown curls seemed to stand on end. The bows were gone. Guimel figured they'd disappeared along with the frilly, lacy poofy thing she'd worn in. He'd never seen a baby shimmy out its clothing that fast. He didn't try to stop her. Hell, he didn't blame her. He had offered her a bit of tea biscuit for her troubles and watched her naw it with her little teeth, doing more slobbering than actual chewing.

"Someone take this thing before I feed it to something," Viole grumbled. He swung the baby in Dallet's direction. Dallet jumped back, practically falling off his couch. Guimel rolled his eyes and rose to take the baby.

Baby B shifted, wrapping her arms around his neck and staring at him. She had Biore's light brown eyes and long lashes. "You are one pretty little girl, aren't ya?"

Baby B grinned at him, spit bubbles forming at the side of her mouth. She screamed, "Tiss!"

"Tiss, tiss, tiss," Viole whined. "She keeps saying it. Is it food? I hope she doesn't mean tits, cause we don't have any of those."

Guimel spared Viole a glance. Viole looked frazzled. He flopped down next to Miguel, running a hand through his hair. Miguel looked thoroughly amused. "I wondered where her nanny was."

Viole huffed. "Probably millions of miles away from that thing."

"Ai, Viole. You had a nanny like Miguel did?" Dallet asked.

Viole groaned. "Only a part-time one. She did the nasty stuff like change my diapers and clean up puke. Otherwise, Mother-dear wanted to do everything herself."

Guimel chuckled, bouncing the baby and making her squeal. "So your _Mother-dear_ really loved you?"

"Yeah, in her own way she did, but I kinda think she had me because she wanted someone else to love her. The girls were getting too old for her, and... I think she thought I'd be a reason to make Dad stay longer. It didn't work out that way, though. I mean, I had a good life, but I always felt like a toy, a doll. She'd fuss and preen and gush, but it was all for display. She wanted people to see how cute I was and how perfect a family we were, even without Dad. She didn't fail at being a wife and mother, Dad had failed at being a husband and father. It got stifling."

"So you decided to go live in a floating bunker with15 other guys?" Dallet asked.

"Hey, my sanity was in extreme peril. I had to do something, and I heard soldiers in Zaibach got servants to clean up after them and someone else cooked and did the wash." Viole shrugged. "I figured I'd learn the sword stuff as I went along. Mother-dear never let me have one."

"She didn't want her darling poopsie to nick himself," Guimel teased. "You hear that, missy? We got another baby in the room. His name's Poopsie! Can you say that?"

"Poop!" Baby B shouted.

Dallet burst out laughing. "She called you 'shit', man."

"Guimel, stop making it call me names!" Viole complained.

"Poop!" Baby B shouted and Guimel tossed her in the air and caught her.

"That's right. He's a poop," Guimel agreed. He tossed her again and caught her. Chubby arms squeezed his neck. "Tiss! Tiss!" Moist pink lips pursed.

Oh. "Kiss."

Guimel pecked her lips. She laughed. "Mine!"

Dallet chuckled. "Don't look now, but I think Guy's got a girlfriend."

"Talk about robbing the cradle," Viole said. "There's laws against that you know."

"Haha, guys." Guimel set Baby B on the floor. She gripped his pants, tiny hands pinching his shins. Where he walked, she walked. "Babies pick up on people being nervous or tense around them easy. Since you guys all handle her like some sort of grenade, of course she clings to me."

"She's a grenade all right. Explodes from both ends," Viole muttered. "I'm never having kids."

Dallet laughed. "Won't the lovely Heather be disappointed."

Viole blushed, ducking his head a bit. Viole and Heather, their correspondence had resumed months ago, when, out of the blue, a letter arrived for Viole in Heather's handwriting. Viole had been so overjoyed the girl was alive, he'd allowed Guimel and Dallet to get him good and plastered. A sober Viole was already silly, so a drunk Viole was a barrel of laughs. They would have to do that again. They'd all ended up with new tattoos in weird places that night.

"The lovely Heather doesn't want them either," Viole said, "unless the gods make it so men can have babies. And even if they do, _I'm_ not having any babies, so that settles that."

Guimel, Dallet and Miguel laughed and Viole folded his arms over his chest.

"So what are we gonna do with the baby?" Miguel asked., eyeing Baby B. Guimel sat down beside Dallet and pulled the baby into his lap.

"I don't know. She can't come with us, obviously," Dallet said. "Maybe we could find her a home."

"Here or in Astoria? I mean, it's Biore's child. Do we really want to leave his...legacy... in this place?" Miguel asked.

Viole shrugged. "It was his home. No matter how we feel about it now, his family was here. Maybe we should find them."

"Why would the girl bring the baby to us instead of Biore's family? Obviously they didn't want it either," Miguel said.

"Maybe," Guimel said. He tapped Baby B's nose and she wrinkled it.

The door opened again and they lifted their heads to see the visitors. Shesta and Dilandau lounged in the doorway.

"Hey!"

Dallet, Viole, and Miguel were up and going to meet them.

"Are you ok?"

"I cannot believe how stupid you are."

Guimel didn't know who said what, because they'd all spoken at once, but Dilandau didn't look angry.

"I'm fine," he said simply. He peered past the group to Guimel and Baby B. "That Biore's kid?"

Guimel rose with the tot under an arm. Baby B laughed and kicked as he walked. Guimel held Baby B, under her arms, out to Dilandau. Dilandau stared at her like he'd never seen a baby before.

"Tiss!"

Dilandau winced. "What?"

"She wants a kiss," Guimel said, beaming. "Ah come on, Dilan. Just a little peck."

"It's slobbering," Dilandau said flatly, looking faintly disgusted.

"Milk!"

"Oh, I knew it wanted a tit," Viole grumbled.

"Does it have a name?" Dilandau asked.

Guimel and the others blinked. Well shit. Of all the things they'd done in the past hour, no one had thought to ask Baby B her name. Guimel flushed.

"Hey Sweetie." Guimel flipped Baby B around to face him and she gurgled at him. "What's your name?"

"Tiss!"

"No, your name. My name's Guy. What's yours?"

Baby B pouted for a second, shoving a chubby fist in her mouth. Drool dribbled down her fingers. Babies truly were disgusting. "Emma."

"Emma?" Guimel bounced her until she smiled again. "What a pretty name for a pretty little girl."

"He's bonded with it," Shesta murmured. "It's really quite scary."

"Who would have thought he'd get on with a baby so well. Isn't he the first to run when one is shoved in his direction?" Dilandau asked quietly.

"Only when he's accused of being the father," Dallet said.

"I can hear you!" Guimel shouted, startling Emma. Emma yelled something too. Might have been, "Yeah" or "He's right", who knew? Sometimes babies made sense, sometimes they didn't.

"So do we get to see the Jontes now that we're all together?" Guimel asked irritably.

Smiles and mirth faded from his friends' faces. Dilandau's eyes were anxious. "Yes, yes we do."

"Wonder what good things Gatty's telling them about us," Viole said, trying to laugh a little.

"He's probably talking shit."

"Shit!" Emma shrieked and eyes went wide.

"Hey, baby girl. That's a bad– " Guimel began.

"Shit! Shit!"

"There's no off switch, button or lever," Viole was mumbling to Dilandau. "I looked."

"We can't take this thing with us to meet the Jontes," Dallet said, poking Emma's middle. Emma squealed and reached her arms out to Dallet. "Oh no, keep your shit over there."

"I don't see why not. We let that other little beast in there with them," Miguel said snidely.

"That other little beast spoke the language. I don't know what this one speaks," Dallet said. "Besides, did you really want to be in here with Little Ryuuon _and_ Little Miss Biore at the same time? We had to get rid of one of them."

"So you chose the one that was potty-trained?" Dilandau asked.

Viole, Miguel and Shesta chuckled while Dallet sputtered.

Guimel rose and slung Emma onto his shoulders. "Relax. Said thing will be with me. I'll keep her amused, while we talk to the Jontes. Can we go now?"

They stared at him.

"I'm changing my observation from scary to disgusting," Shesta said. "You are going to make somebody a really good daddy one day, Guy. No wonder all those girls chase you down wanting you to father their children."

Guimel glared and Shesta smirked. Bastard.

They filed out the door into the wide hallway, the gray paneled walls lined with large portraits of Adelphos and various melef prototypes. Guimel frowned at one of Dilandau's old Oreades. It was a painting of the melef burning from the inside out. Was that what Zaibach had done to Dilandau's abandoned red guymelef?

The second parlor was an open area on the third floor. The only area in the place with windows that gave you a view of the skyline instead of the walls of other buildings. The only furniture was arranged on a large oval shaped rug in the center of the room. There were several couches, a dozen armchairs and an army of little coral end tables appearing near the arms of each chair. Adelphos and his old fart friends must have had plenty of smokes and glasses of vino in this room while talking about how good they thought they looked on the battlefield.

Gatty sat in an armchair clutching an empty teacup while staring nervously at the Jontes and Little Ryuuon. Shesta cleared his throat and Gatty practically leapt to his feet, a grateful smile on his face. He looked relieved to the point of tears. Guimel wouldn't have been surprised if Gatty had kissed Dilandau as he approached.

"So we finally get to meet the little boy of the hour."

Guimel winced. Mrs. Jonte's voice was an older version of Refina's.

They let Dilandau lead them as they approached the armchair Mrs. Jonte sat on. Her mousy husband and Little Ryuuon shared a couch across from her. Mrs. Jonte stood up. She was a head shorter than Dilandau, but seemed taller.

"Are we over our little swoon?"

Dilandau blinked.

Oops. Who'd told her that tidbit? Guimel wondered.

"Yes, I'm feeling a lot better. I'm sorry for the delay. I tried to come as soon as you requested my presence, Madam." Dilandau bowed slightly.

Mrs. Jonte's eyes narrowed. "Save your pretty condolences for someone who might believe them. Look at me, Boy."

Mrs. Jones took Dilandau's face in her little hands which were heavy with golden rings. "Your friend here tried to explain to me what happened that day. He says that my Refina was the one who took charge, and he seconded her suggestion, making it official. Refi chose to give her life for you."

Dilandau didn't look away from Mrs. Jonte's steady gaze.

"You must have known how she felt about you. She told me she'd marry you, if she could only get you notice she was alive, but you notice her now that she's gone, don't you?"

Dilandau swallowed.

"I know you all think that I've come here to yell at you, and yes, I have. I'm angry that my daughter ran away from me. I'm angry that she only wrote to me once a month and each time it was tell me about her beautiful, silver-haired captain who didn't even notice she was a woman! I'm angry that the next time I saw her it was in an urn with a damn ribbon and medal wrapped around its base! I'm angry that a strange soldier delivered it to me with contempt in his eyes instead of one of you, instead of the men she loved. I'm angry that it took you a year to come to us and say you're sorry! You led my baby into battle, she died for you, and you can't even come tell her parents how you felt about her? You can't tell her mother how lovely her darling was?"

"It..." Dilandau began. Guimel could sense him mentally biting his tongue. There was a war going on; they were traitors. They couldn't return to Zaibach until the fighting was done. It wasn't safe. It wasn't smart. They were here now. "I'm sorry. We should have tried to find you sooner."

Guimel heard someone stifle a soft gasp.

"Refina was beautiful. She was strong and confident, a natural leader. I trusted her alone on operations where I trusted few. If I had known how she felt about me, I would have... tried to please her. But I didn't. I regret that, but it's not true when you say I didn't notice her until she was dead. I always noticed Refina. I noticed all of my friends. If I could go back and change anything, I would try to change that day just because I didn't want her, them, to die for me. But even if I was able to object, I don't think anything would have happened differently. Your Refina was brave, and loyal, and a true friend. If the situation was reversed, I would have died for her, any of us here now would have died for her. Or Ryuuon. Or Biore. Or Tristan. Or Kwami. Or Kieran. Or Sergio. Or Andre. Or Bryan."

Guimel blinked water from his eyes. He wasn't crying. He was allergic to Zaibach. _Dallet_ was crying. Guimel nudged him with his elbow and Dallet wiped at his wet eyes, flushing slightly.

Emma fisted his hair and tugged at his curls, giving him a reason to let the water escape. There was nothing like fresh physical pain to mask unmanly behavior.

"That's bull! My daddy says you all turned tail and ran! All of you, even Ryuuon! He got cut down while you were all running and you didn't stop to help him."

"That's bull...." Guimel started.

"Shit!" Emma supplied.

"What she said. That's bullshit. Yeah, we retreated, but that was our mission. Our position was compromised and we needed to secure safer ground. We fought our way out as a unit...."

"But you were still running away," Little Ryuuon huffed. He stood on the couch, hazel eyes shining. "You fought for the enemy! You got my brother killed, so you could turn traitor! You ruined our home!"

"Emperor Dornkirk ruined your home," Gatty said evenly. "Emperor Dornkirk and the Four Generals got your brother killed. They didn't care about you, they didn't care about us; they didn't care about Zaibach. They all had their own agendas. The Emperor wanted to see the result of his experiment; the Generals wanted power. In the end, the country that followed them blindly fell. We couldn't stay here, because we weren't blind. Dornkirk and the others with him wanted to hurt us, and we had to leave. Dornkirk and the others following him wanted to destroy Gaia. We had to stop him, and if it meant joining the side we'd once fought against, so be it. Your brother would have been right beside us, if he'd lived. You should have seen him in that fight. I'd never seen him wield a sword so well. He... he took my blow. I should have... but your brother was just too fast. I owe my life to him."

Little Ryuuon panted, tears spiking his long lashes. He was a cute little thing when he wasn't kicking Guimel's shins. Had Ryuuon been that cute? Guimel didn't think so.

"He used to write me letters, special letters that would be addressed just to me. They would come in the big packages with Mommy and Daddy's letter. There was always a present, and he would talk about you guys. He'd say that you..." Little Ryuuon looked at Dilandau, "were like the greatest guy ever. That nobody could beat you in a fight and everybody that fought for you was gonna go down in history."

Mrs. Jonte had let go of Dilandau's face. Everyone was watching the little boy. Well, everyone but Emma. She was gurgling over Guimel's head, doing painful things to his hair.

"Is he in the books yet?" Little Ryuuon asked. "Are you gonna make sure they put him in there. Cause... cause you guys rode in looking all big and bad, and I can see them forgetting all about my brother and only writing about you. You better not let them or else... or else I won't believe you! I'll always think that you ran and got him killed and didn't care!"

Dilandau stared at Little Ryuuon. "What's your name?"

"Kenji."

"Kenji Lao, if anyone wants permission to write about the Dragonslayers they will have to publish all of our names. Every single member of the team helped save Gaia," Dilandau said firmly.

Kenji stiffened. "My brother...really liked you. He talked about you like you were his brother too, and I always thought...."

"Yes?"

"I always thought that when I got old enough, I'd come fight for you too. I wanted to be with him and meet you and then... and then Daddy told me he was dead. Ugly soldiers came with a big black vase and a medal." Kenji sobbed, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

Dilandau did something Guimel wasn't prepared for. He held out his arms to the little boy, and Kenji hopped off the couch and walked into them. Guimel wasn't the only one in shock. Dilandau was nobody's teddy bear, yet there he was handing out hugs and back rubs.

Mrs. Jonte coughed, her eyes a bit misty. Dilandau glanced at her over Kenji's dark hair.

"I believe I'm next."

Dilandau smiled.

Emma squealed and grunted, and Shesta laughed.

"Looks like Emma wants a hug from you too, Lord Dilandau. Should we form a line?"

"Shesta, stop being a...." Dilandau said.

"Shit!" Emma cried.

"What she said."

* * *

Author's Note: Whoohoo! Today marks the start of the first day of my Winter Holiday. I am so excited for this break. Maybe I'll actually get some real writing done. I hope you enjoyed this section, and you know what I'm going to ask now. What's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care about it either way? Well, any way, let me know; please review!


	7. Country of Bones, Part 3

_Author's Note: HAPPY NEW YEAR! My New Year's Eve kicked! I'm such a nerd; I spent it playing laser tag and arcade games at a Dave N Buster's type place with a friend and my semi-boyfriend. But hey, I won every game I played ;). Well, here is the last part of Country of Bones. I hope you enjoy it! _

_Thank you to all who reviewed the last part! I love ya! :)_

* * *

_Miguel _

Little Emma ran down the hall completely naked, leaving a bewildered Sir Allen with a clean homemade diaper dangling from one hand. Miguel choked back a snicker.

"Miguel, are you really just going to sit there?" Sir Allen asked.

Miguel had made himself comfortable on the divan. Watching Sir Allen on baby duty was added entertainment. Technically, Miguel was on baby duty too, but babies were terra incognito to him. He was under the suspicion that his friends had sent him off with Sir Allen and the baby as a joke. A bad one. Miguel wasn't laughing, not at himself anyway.

One of General Adelphos's luxury bathrooms had become a baby changing station in a matter of minutes. Sir Allen informed Miguel that he had changed many diapers in his day and wanted Miguel to see the process. Sir Allen was always taking special interests in Miguel and trying to teach him "important" life skills. He was probably trying to prepare Miguel to be a husband to Celena or something silly like that.

Sometimes, Sir Allen seemed ready to kill him for being too close to his sister and other times, Sir Allen seemed relieved. Like he viewed Miguel as civilization and Celena the wild. Miguel was a good influence. Miguel wanted to inform Sir Allen that though he was currently "seeing" his sister, it didn't mean wedding bells were soon to chime. Celena was good; in fact, Celena was great. Miguel was intrigued by her Celena-ness, because it was so different from anything he'd experienced before. He had never laid back and let a woman take control before. It was like an adventure that he never saw the end of. Every time he thought he'd reached his goal, a gorge would open up and he'd nearly plummet to his death. It was a precarious situation. Precarious and fiancé did not go together.

Hell, they were sixteen. Sixteen and fiancé were not synonymous either, but perhaps Sir Allen was too old to know that. Times had changed since he was of "courting" age. Miguel had a thought.

"Sir Allen, why aren't you married?"

"What?" Sir Allen was peering down the hall, looking for Emma. She couldn't have gone far. Miguel could hear her giggling. Maybe she'd found Daddy Guimel. Honestly, Miguel felt a small inkling of admiration. Though they joked about it, Guimel might make someone a wonderful father. However, Miguel would forever feel sorry for the woman who'd trapped him. Miguel couldn't see Guimel settling down with one person and being happy, which would make his wife or girlfriend or whatever she'd call herself, unhappy too.

"Why aren't you married?" Miguel asked. "You're from a good family, you are a respected member of society, you're a Knight Caeli; you're tall and handsome. By all means, you should be married with at least one child."

Sir Allen pushed away from the door, turning to look at Miguel. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Not in any way. I'm just... if I were still at home, and had survived to be 26, I would undoubtably be married. Living in _this _world and being who you are, you should be married. What's stopped you?" Miguel leaned forward on the couch, placing his elbows on his knees.

The blond man's face clouded, blue eyes going dark. "Something that you should never let stop you."

Miguel frowned. Sir Allen had been in the military all his life. He had various fancies, but no relationships, aside from that strange vibe between he and Princess Millerna.

"I let my past stop me, Miguel," Allen said. "My father, my mother, my sister. I didn't want to turn into my father. I had to clear the family name of his disgrace. I had to honor my mother's memory and be a good man. I had to find my sister. In clearing the family name, I had no time to court, in being a good man, I let love pass me by instead of fighting, in finding my sister, I created no social ties."

Let love pass him by without fighting? Was he talking about Lord Dryden and the Princess? But the Princess hadn't been married to Lord Dryden when Sir Allen was in her life, and Miguel couldn't see King Aston being opposed to Allen's proposal. After all, Princess Millerna was the youngest princess. Younger princesses were usually married off to noble land owners and lesser lords. Sir Allen had a castle of his own, or rather he'd _had_ a castle of his own. Miguel had a hand in burning it down.

However, Princess Millerna was special. The first Princess Marlene had died in childbirth and her husband, who could have claimed the throne when King Aston failed was dead as well. Princess Eries was next in line, but she'd married religion. There would be no husband for her, so Princess Millerna's husband would be the one to claim the throne, though Millerna herself could claim it too. Miguel had no doubt in his mind that she might demand that she and Dryden become joint despots. Right now, she was too interested in furthering her medical studies. She didn't have time for politics while she was healing wounded soldiers.

Had Sir Allen not fought for Princess Millerna because he hadn't wanted to be the heir apparent?

"Well, now you've found your sister and a brother you didn't know you had, Dilandau feels that your mother is happy now, and no one hears the name Schezar and thinks of your father," Miguel said. Sir Allen couldn't win Princess Millerna back, no. She and Lord Dryden were like peas in a pod lately, but Sir Allen should feel free to look again.

"I assure you that I date, Miguel," Sir Allen said. "I attend many social galas."

But you never bring anyone home to stay, Miguel wanted to say, but that wasn't fair. The man had his own problems.

"I would like to know how serious you are about my sister?" Sir Allen asked.

Miguel sighed, knowing he would give the man an answer he wouldn't like. "We're dating, Sir Allen. Neither one of us knows where we're going with this. It may last til the end of the month, it may last a year."

Sir Allen clasped his hands behind his back. "There are some noble families who hope to merge with ours. They ask after Celena, and Dilandau as well– though they ask after Dilandau more. I tell them that Celena may be off the market. I like you, Miguel. She likes you. You are the only boy that holds her fancy for more than a few days."

Miguel snorted. He should hope so. But... "Sir Allen, Celena won't like that you're trying to arrange marriages for her, even if it's to me. And I... am not ready for marital commitments to anyone yet."

Sir Allen nodded. "I know. You're young, but in our world you know..."

"That betrothals can be arranged before you cut your first tooth," Miguel said. "Yes. But this only works for those born and raised in our world. Celena may have been born to it, but she was not raised in it. And even if she were, she would have run away, like me."

"She did run away," Sir Allen said.

Miguel watched the man pace in front of the long black coral counter he'd been using as a changing table. A plush red towel was spread over the surface along with a jar of talcum powder that Miguel hoped had belonged to one of Adelphos's female guests, and small dampened face cloths. A long mirror reflected Sir Allen's anxious expression. Behind one door was the commode and the other, the bathtub, shower and sink.

"And you think marrying her off will keep her here?" Miguel asked. "Sir Allen, if you want to keep her from running again, you're going about it all wrong. The more you push the more she'll pull."

"Dilandau says the same thing," Sir Allen said. "But... I'm not trying to integrate her into our society to anchor her here. I want... I hope... that you... anyone will rub off on her. When you are around, I find her easier to deal with. She fights me less. She and Dilandau are civil to each other."

Miguel frowned. Dilandau and Celena had been sniping at each other more and more. Viole had told them that they'd actually gotten into a physical fight that afternoon. They were both sporting bruises. Celena was annoyed with Dilandau, resentful even. He was being promoted above her, and she'd never reach him. She knew no one thought of her what they did of him and it made her ornery. Miguel didn't think he'd like being compared to one of his brothers either, but if he was home, it'd be bound to happen. He was the youngest. Celena was not.

Celena did seem to be on her best behavior when Miguel was around, but Miguel didn't think it was to impress him, not really. It was something else. Miguel caught her watching him when he worked with Dilandau or joked with him out of the corner of her eyes. There were so many questions there, but Celena never asked them, and Miguel was grateful. He would never claim to be able to read the girl's mind, and for the first time ever, he was grateful to be lacking in an ability.

"She–she scares me, Miguel. Sometimes I catch her looking at me or Dilandau or even some of you with this look in her eyes, like a predator biding her time before she devours us all." Sir Allen wrung his hands together. "She used to do that when she was younger too. One time, she was sitting on Mother's bed while she slept, just staring at her windpipe. I'll never forget that. I still get chills."

Miguel's brow furrowed. Sir Allen's eyes were haunted. "Sir Allen, you're not...."

"Scared of my own little sister?" Sir Allen asked. "No, I'm not scared of her; I'm scared for her. There's something dark inside her, Miguel. I know it; mother knew it. I don't want her getting into trouble because of it. And I think that if she continues down this path, trying to be a soldier, she'll get worse. Violence makes it worse. She's bloodthirsty. It's... that was something I saw in Dilandau's eyes years ago, before they were separated. I thought he was a psychopath, a conscienceless killer."

Miguel bit his lip. He knew what Allen was talking about. He'd seen it too in the heat of battle. Dilandau used to glorify in the kill, drawing it out. Now, when he killed he took no morbid pleasure in it. He enjoyed the thrill of combat, he loved to win, but he didn't bask in the bloodshed. He was cold, calculating and callous in battle, not raging, wild and careless. He was a soldier proud of his skill, not an animal on the loose. Not anymore.

The Madoushi had found a way to take the beast out of the soldier.

"You can't change what she is, Allen," Miguel said. Too many people had tried to do that and failed.

"I can't let her burn either," Sir Allen said, "and she's going to burn. I just got her back, Miguel. I have to protect her, even if it's from herself. I just don't know how. You are the only thing we both agree on."

Miguel arched a brow. "You two talk about me often, do you?"

Sir Allen chuckled softly. "Don't get cocky soldier, but there is debutante ball approaching that Celena will be debuting in. We will be inviting you to be her date."

"It takes two people to ask such things?" Miguel felt more comfortable. The nervousness from before leaving his body. He hadn't realized it, but Sir Allen had been scaring him about Celena. Maybe Miguel should talk to her or Dilandau about it. Celena would probably laugh and assure him Allen was growing senile in his old age, then go on a tirade about him that would last for days. Dilandau... Dilandau would probably look disturbed as he usually did when people asked him about Celena's behavior. He wasn't scared, he was concerned... but for who?

"It takes two people in this case. She may not ask you and skip the event all together," Sir Allen said.

Miguel smirked, thinking of something. "Will Dilandau and Van be in attendance?"

Sir Allen squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm told that Van is having a new suit tailored for the affair."

Miguel bit his lip on the chuckle wanting to escape. Sir Allen was him many months ago. It had taken a while for Miguel to accept Van, and Miguel wasn't guilty of pushing Van onto Dilandau like Sir Allen was. That had really come back to bite the older man in the rear. Sir Allen just wasn't ready for Dilandau and Van, and he wasn't being given the time to make himself ready. Poor guy.

"Did you two lose something?" Guimel stood in the doorway holding a naked, squirming baby.

"There she is," Sir Allen said distractedly. He shook his head and moved to take Emma from Guimel. Emma let out a shout and clung to Guimel, chubby little arms tight around Guimel's neck. Guimel made a choking noise.

"H–hey baby girl, ease up. What did you do to her, Sir Allen?"

Sir Allen looked affronted. "I was only changing her diaper. She ran off before I could put the new one on."

Guimel jiggled Emma. "You can't run around in your birthday suit baby. Go– " Guimel tried to pass Emma to Sir Allen, but she cried. "Oh, come on. Just... fine. Fine. I'll change her. Thanks for trying."

They were being ejected. Miguel rose from the divan to join Allen by the door. Guimel passed them, going to the counter. "Why the hell does Adelphos have powder in his bathroom?"

"Hell!"

"That's right. Hell. Now hold still."

Miguel and Sir Allen slipped out of the bathroom.

"Celena didn't like for me to change her diapers either," Sir Allen said. "She'd run through the house looking for Mother every time. I would chase her all over, finally catching her and carrying her back to the dressing table. It was our ritual. Kids run, but they always come back to you, whether it be on their own or by force."

"You'd do best to let her come back on her own."

"So you've said, but Celena's too stubborn to acknowledge when she should come back. I... would be grateful if you'd try to help her find the way. She won't let me."

Miguel met Sir Allen's hopeful blue gaze, so like his sister's, more like his brother's. Miguel could never say no to any of those eyes.

"I'll do my best."

"Thank you." Sir Allen bowed his head slightly, then those eyes were on Miguel again. "Now, what's this about you boys riding across the country side spreading ashes and going door to door?"

Miguel blinked. Hm. So it seemed his friends had stuck Miguel with Sir Allen for another purpose other than a good laugh at Miguel on baby duty.

Damn them.

"Well...."

* * *

_Celena_

My little brother's a freakin' saint and my big brother's an angel. Dilan was going on a mission to find all the grieving families of his poor dead Slayers and offer them his sincerest condolences. Len was a Knight of Heaven who couldn't be topped by his little brother's good deeds, so he decided to start a save the poor _rich_ citizens of Zaibach campaign. It hurt his heart to see nobility living in such self-perceived squalor.

Celena wanted to puke.

"And what will you do when they throw cabbage at you? Make salad?" Celena asked. Dilandau walked around his tiny room in the inn, stuffing things in his soldier's duffle.

"If it's not too wilted," Dilandau said absently. He zipped the bag and turned to look at her. "You should come too."

"Oh please. All your boys and me on a trip? We'd kill each other, not to mention you and me would kill each other."

"When did you start calling them my boys?" Dilandau asked.

"Well that's who they are. They won't let me forget that they were never mine. You won't let me forget either. Wasn't it you who said had we been split from the get-go none of them would have agreed to follow me? They would have sneered at me just like the Gorgons had?"

"I didn't say that part about the Gorgons," Dilandau said with a shrug. "And so what? Maybe they wouldn't have, but they didn't get the choice. You were there and, sometimes, you led them. Like it or not you are a part of the team, and, even though you deny it, you need closure too."

"Closure is for babies and women who have vapors," Celena said. "I'm neither; which are you?"

"Whatever your boyfriend is, so you're either robbing the cradle...."

"Or taking a page from you?" Celena asked. She patted his duffle. "You packed my favorite shirt."

"I packed _my_ favorite shirt. I better not catch you even breathing in its direction," Dilandau said. "Go take something of Allen's."

"Your clothes fit better," Celena said silkily. "I don't know why I can have clothes fitted for me and yet the ones made for you fit me best."

Dilandau's eyes narrowed. "Maybe it's psychological."

"Maybe."

They stood on opposite sides of the small twin bed. The room was no more than a glorified closet with no windows and a dim lamp on a molting night stand in a corner. This was where the servants of the visiting nobles had slept. The inn was devoid of customers, but the bitch and bastard upstairs claimed the only rooms available to _them_ were in the cellars. Celena had voted that they toss the middle aged couple out on their asses and take over the inn. Allen had voted that they be civil in unfriendly lands, because some people actually liked to sleep with both eyes closed. They were already having enough trouble with that as it was.

"How long do you guys think you'll be on your little tour, or should I say funeral march?" Celena asked after a short silence.

"For as long as it takes."

Celena smiled. She loved her brother's eyes, the color of fine red wine which looked like blood in dim lighting. Those eyes were better suited for her. People always looked at Dilandau twice, once because he was beautiful, twice because he was dangerous. They didn't screw with him the way they did her. If they only knew, but she couldn't show it to them, could she?

Celena never thought it was better to be inside of Dilandau. She hadn't liked sharing. But it was so hard to earn a name for herself. Why did he get to keep it all, when he hadn't done it all? She worked for Astoria, under Dilandau, under the Slayers, a captain. She had a small team with a frequently rotating roster. No one wanted to serve her for long, even if she did take the best missions.

She caught roadside bandits and hunted crime rings, dragging many thieves before the king. Did they reward her? Did they ask her to sit at their table and look over their plans to be sure they were satisfactory? No. They looked to Dilandau, they looked to Allen; they looked to freakin' Gatty and Shesta now that Folken and that bastard Pearce were gone.

"What's Astoria to do without her precious pet Slayers 'for as long as it takes'?" Celena mused.

"Survive you," Dilandau said, offering her a cool smile. "And since it's already done that, I don't think it'll have a problem doing it again."

Celena sneered and Dilandau slung his duffle over his shoulder, pushing past her to the door. He exited the room, not looking back at her. There was a tiny crackle of electricity when he brushed against her. It hurt like thousands of needles pricking her one place. She didn't flinch, but rubbed her arm, wanting to taste the invisible blood. She wanted to grab Dilandau around the throat and crush his windpipe with her fingers. She liked to watch him sleep and....

She shook her head. No.

She rubbed her arms, hard. She bowed her head as her excited pulse slowed. Her hands trembled as they gripped her biceps. She hated when she felt like that. She didn't want to hurt her brother. Never. She loved him. She would kill for him.

She would kill him.

Celena was dizzy. It was happening more and more lately. The further he left her behind, the worse it became. She needed to fight. She needed to do something to get it out, or she was going to hurt someone. She wanted to tell Dilandau about it, needed to tell him because he'd understand, but she couldn't. Something made her bite her tongue. She walked paces behind him as he ventured up the stairs that led into the small kitchen. Dilandau pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and sunlight spilled into the candle lit stairwell. Many voices called to Dilandau, all sounding pleased to see him.

No one ever sounded pleased to see her. Except Miguel.

She smiled as she thought of him, her Miguel, her nobleman. Who would have thought that she and Stick up His Ass Miguel, her first Slayer, would mesh so well? She loved pressing herself against his lean compact body, touching him in places that made him flush and squeezing until he gasped. He let her do what she needed. She needed to give the orders, to be the strong one.

Miguel called her General. She had finally reached a rank before Dilandau had.

She reached the top of the stairs and passed through the door. Gatty and Dallet went scrounging through the pantries, packing supply bags. Shesta was talking to Dilandau. Guimel was playing with that abominable rat he called "Emma" and Viole was perched on top of a dirty counter chattering at Miguel, who wasn't listening. He was watching Celena come toward him.

"Good morning," Miguel said smoothly. "You don't look packed."

"I'm not going," Celena said sweetly. "You know this."

Miguel looked slightly disappointed. "Weeks in the great Zaibach unknown with no older brother in sight. Come on."

Viole slid off the counter.

Viole was jealous. Celena was stealing away his best friend. She really should attempt to be nicer to him. Miguel cared about him a great deal. Celena smirked, grabbing Miguel by the collar of his red shirt and yanking him to her. Tasting Miguel was better than tasting blood. She licked his lips, her signal for him to part them. Her tongue massaged his tongue, her mouth crushed against his mouth. He'd had a stale pastry and bad coffee for breakfast.

Celena heard Viole moving away from them. After all, what did Viole have on that? Celena had won Miguel. She would always win Miguel. Miguel pulled away from her, dark blue eyes almost navy with sated lust. Miguel didn't need much to keep him under her spell. That bubble brain Millerna acted like men required so much attention and maintenance and preening, like damn roses. Well, maybe sexy, princely Miguel was a weed.

A weed like her.

Weeds choked flowers, killed them.

Miguel's arms went around her waist as she gazed over his shoulder at her little brother. Guimel was holding the squirming pink rat out to him and Dilandau took it from him, holding the thing at arms length.

Roses were passionate and beautiful and dangerous. Their pretty petals distracted you from their long, sharp thorns. Beautiful and dangerous. Dilandau.

Miguel's arms tightened around her waist and Celena jerked in his hold.

"What?" Miguel's breath tickled her ear.

Celena blinked, looking away from Dilandau as the baby squealed and laughed.

"Nothing." Her voice was quiet, not quite her own. She pulled away from Miguel, and he stared at her. His long, slender fingers brushed blond curls from her eyes. The skin that tickled her face was rough with calluses, the hands of a swordsman.

"One day you're going to tell me what you think about when you stare at him, Celena," Miguel said.

Celena blinked. "How do you know who I'm staring at?"

"It's easy to tell when you go that still," Miguel said. He let go of her completely then, but she didn't want him to. She grabbed his hands and guided them to her hips.

"How long before you go? Do we have time to...."

"Good morning, Sir Allen!" Miguel snatched his hands back like her hips were hot plates. He stepped away from her, putting exactly 6 inches of space between them, knowing Miguel.

Celena felt the presence of someone tall who smelled like expensive cologne and outdoors standing behind her. She turned around to greet her older brother. "Good morning, Allen."

Allen had scowl on his handsome face. His eyes were narrow as he looked from her to Miguel. "Miguel," he said evenly. "Celena and I were discussing your invitation to the Astorian Debutante Gala. We would like you to be her escort and to present her to the public as Miss Celena Schezar."

Celena's cheeks burned. She felt a growl rumbling in her chest, and Miguel must have heard it. He stepped back.

"Ah... I don't know if we'll be back in time for the Gala. Zaibach's a big place and we might decide to ride back to Astoria instead of sending the signal for you to pick us up. We might even ride out to visit Gatty and Shesta's folks and build schools for orphans...."

It was funny how Miguel channeled Viole when he was nervous. Celena loved having the power to make him nervous. He belonged to her; she'd marked him.

"I have to go help... with... the baby." Miguel was gone.

Allen watched Miguel's retreat in confusion. "Did you...."

Celena grinned. "Are you really going to let Dilandau bring Van as his date?"

Allen scowled again and Celena tossed her head back and laughed. The dizziness was gone. "Van will be in attendance," Allen said.

"Of course he will." He'll be in attendance behind the building too. Celena chuckled, then narrowed her eyes to match Allen's. "You're really going to let Dilandau go off on this escapade?"

Allen blinked, surprised. "I can't stop him from doing what he feels he needs to do. There's... I sense a peace building in him, in all of them, when they talk about it."

"It's pointless, Allen. He's wasting time. He'll be out in a place where people hate him for who he is for gods know how long," Celena said. "I don't like it."

Allen raised a brow. "Ah, so you don't want him to go because you're worried he'll get hurt. Did you tell him that?"

Celena snorted. "Of course not. Like it'd make him stay."

"He may have set a time limit on his trip."

Celena stared at Allen.

"All right, he wouldn't have, but there wouldn't be so much...."

"Tension between us?" Celena asked. "Len, the tension's not going to go away if he stays." _It's almost better if he goes_. She made a fist, fingernails digging into her palm. Maybe Dryden would ask her to do more with Dilandau gone, he'd see how useful she was finally.

"What's going on between you two, Celena?" Allen asked.

Celena blew curls out of her eyes. "Nothing" _that you'd understand_. "Are we seeing them off?"

Allen started. The kitchen was devoid of Slayers. Only he and Celena remained.

"Celena, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

Celena sighed. Poor Allen would never stop trying to take the problems of all Schezars on his shoulders. When would he realize the only Schezar he should and could help was himself?

"Right" _about nothing._

Allen placed a large hand on her shoulder and they walked out of the kitchen into the inn's lobby. The room was a vast improvement to the servant's dungeons and kitchen area they'd been banished too. It was large and spacious, full of coral antiques and fine furniture Celena longed to strike matches against. Refina's hag of a mother and slug of a father stood holding baskets of goods. Ryuuon's whole family, snot-nosed little brother, mother cow and father pig stood shaking hands. It was amazing how people changed when they bothered to listen to a different side of the story. Celena didn't forgive any of _them_ for throwing eggs and calling them names. _They_ could all rot in the hell Dumbshit had gone to.

A skinny girl in poofy skirts swished across the room with her head down. She curtsied for Dilandau, then started babbling a long story in a voice that sounded like a busted flute. She'd come for the baby. Celena watched Guimel hand it over seeming almost regretful. He kissed the thing on its slimy little mouth before he let it go.

The Slayers were ready to leave. They were headed for the doors where 7 horses waited for them outside. They didn't want to take their Silvers; they didn't want to borrow the Crusade. They would be on uncharted roads for days, fighting off bandits, saving peasants, maybe even slaying dragons. An adventure.

Her heart pounded. She did want to go, if only to protect him. If only to...

She clenched her fist tighter, wincing. Warm blood trickled across her palm.

_Stop it._

He'd be better protected away from her.

"Celena? Aren't we seeing them off?" Allen was looking at her. He was moving toward the door, following Dilandau and the Slayers out with everyone else. Kyo, Reeden, and Gaddes were already outside.

Celena shook her head. "I've seen them."

"Boss!"

Allen looked toward the door, then back at Celena. "Lena, are you...."

"I'm fine." _I'm not, but you wouldn't understand_. "They don't need my blessing to finish burying their bones."

Allen frowned. "What?"

Zaibach was a country of bones. The meat, its military, melted off; the organs, its Emperor, dust.

"Nothing, Len."

"Celena?"

"I'm going back to Adelphos's castle. I want to see inside his office one last time."

"But Celena there's nothing there," Allen said.

"I know."

_And sometimes I feel there's nothing here either. Our family, the Schezar manor, Mother, Father, our old live, my old life, my old face.... A country of bones. _

_**End**_


	8. The Count of Castelloni, Part 1

Author's Note: Wow, it has been a while. Real life kinda sucks when it keeps you away from fan fiction, hehe. I want to thank everyone who has reviewed The T'weenage Years so far. I'm glad you guys are enjoying following the gang for a few more rounds of craziness. The next series of one-shots will cover the Slayers' funeral march through Zaibach to pay respects to the families of their lost Slayers. Each Slayer will get a chance to visit his home town and reunite with his family, no matter how unjoyous some of the reunions may be :D. First up, we have the Right Honorable Viole... ;). I expect this section to have 8-10 parts to it. I am working on the next part as we speak. Enjoy!

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The Count of Castelloni

_Viole_

The bar's name was V3.

If the V's didn't warn Viole away from the place, the fact that they came in three's should have. All evil came in packages of three. Three sixes were the sign of a devil. Three sneezes in the row meant a cold was coming on. Three strikes you're out. Three sheets to the wind.

Three V's: Viola, Verruca, and Vanessa.

Viole sighed as he gazed around the frilly bar, decorated in lavender and lilac, every spare inch not painted purple covered in lacy doilies. The furniture was straight out of Grandma's parlor. Everything was hard, dark wood with intricate hearts and cupids carved into the arms and legs. Viole would not have believed it was a bar, if not for the crushes peanut shells all over the floor and the rowdy men pushing past him to grab bar stools.

Guimel and Dallet drooled as they watched Viole's older sister, Vanessa, work a crowd of burly men at one table wearing a bastardized version of her debutante gown. Its long full skirts and petticoats were altered so that the skirts only fell to the knee, and the petticoat flared so that Vanessa's sweetheart bloomers showed when she bent over. The cap sleeves were shoved down so that her shoulders were bare and her cleavage was on display like loaves of fresh bread for sale at the bakery first thing in the morning.

"Great recommendation. We gotta go back and tip that guy for telling us about this place," Guimel said, voice awestruck.

"Yeah, I mean it looks like Lady Penelope's sitting room threw up, but hey...gotta love the icons." Dallet's eyes were on Verruca as she strutted through the crowd holding a round tray of dark ale in fancy, iced mugs. She wore stilettos so tall they could have been stilts and fish net stockings caught up in garter belts. Her skirt was nothing more than a petticoat, and she wore a corset as a vest over a hot pink brassiere. Her face was heavily painted, like an expensive whore on lay-away. A beefy hand pinched her bottom, and Verruca tossed her head back, long black curls falling over her shoulders, and laughed.

"How come you didn't tell us your hometown had dives like this, Vi?" Guimel elbowed him in the middle, trying to get him to take another step into the room. As it was, Viole's feet were glued three feet from the exit, his hands itched and cramped as he kept them from finding the latch to open the door again. The only place he'd wanted to leave faster than this place was Dr. Marie's clinic on vaccination day.

"It didn't use to," Viole's voice was like a hiccup. Both Dallet and Guimel looked at him wearing patented shit-eating grins.

"Like what you see?" Dallet teased.

"What would Heather think about you checking out the local booty," Guimel laughed. "But hey, she can't fault your taste. Though it's a seedy bar, you can tell somebody with a lotta money to burn set this place up."

Guimel wrapped an arm around Viole's shoulder and dragged him to the bar in back. Dallet followed, walking backward, staring at Verruca's half-exposed butt cheeks.

This was traumatic. He squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to see any more of his sisters than he should. Where was Mother Dear– then had a horrible thought. Oh gods, what if she was in back wearing the worst outfit of all. Maybe she'd pop out of a cake and sing Happy Birthday to one of the patrons.

"I gotta get out of here!" Viole shouted. He broke free of Guimel and turned to run, and smacked into the chest of a very large man. Viole gazed up, blinking as the man looked beyond him, lovesick puppy dog eyes making Viole's stomach plummet to the floor.

Soft piano music began to play, like a ballerina music box being opened. Viole didn't dare turn to look, but the cat calls and whistles aroused morbid curiosity on his part. He turned his head to see a circular stage slowly rising from a now open trapdoor in the floor.

On top of it, danced Viola in a pair of shorts that might have belonged to him in another life, break-neck high heels and a studded, sparkly boostie. Dollar bills were being tossed onto the stage.

He was gonna be sick. He was gonna hurl the cardboard cereal he'd eaten for lunch all over the dirty floor. Nearby, Dallet stopped howling and Guimel no longer whistled. They looked from Viola to Viole to Viola again.

"Um... Vi..." Dallet started to say.

"That girl kinda looks like..." Guimel started to say.

"Oh my gods! It's his Right Honorable Count Castelloni!"

Viole eyes went wide as he turned to find the person who'd said it and found all eyes in the bar on him. Viola, Verruca and Vanessa stared. The people set down their drinks, ready to bow.

Guimel and Dallet flanked him, Guimel gripping his arm tight.

Viole offered them all a sickly smile. "Uh... Long time no see?"

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Authors Note: All right, you know the spiel. Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Either way, please review. The next part will pick up with Miguel. Thanks for reading and take care!


	9. The Count of Castelloni, Part 2

Author's Note: I know the pacing of my posting is weird, but the introduction to this story was a bit brief. Adding this to it makes me feel a little better. :). Enjoy!

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_Miguel_

Miguel was in heaven. No, the pleasure he was experiencing was positively sinful; he was in a hell for rich, handsome sinners that pretty devils loved to defile with chocolate truffles. He sat in an overstuffed armchair with his feet propped up on a cushioned foot stool. A box of assorted chocolates sat on an end table beside him. The lobby of the moderately sized inn was a spa/lounging area for the seriously spoiled. All around him was decadence, polished wood furniture and ruffled table cloths, plush couches, divans and recliners, and all inside him was gooey, goodness. He bit into another candy; sweet raspberry filling dribbled onto his lower lip. He sucked at it.

"My gods, this place is ridiculous!" Shesta appeared at his left, flopping down on a duplicate of Miguel's armchair. "If I hadn't checked the map 5 times, I wouldn't think we were in Zaibach anymore!"

Shesta was ruining his Miguel time.

"We've been here for 3 hours and all we've received are brochures for restaurants, programs for dances and parties and…" Shesta complained.

Miguel sighed. He didn't understand any of the complaints and wariness of his group this time around. Miguel loved being in the state of Castelle. Sure, it was one of the regions they'd invaded to burn up a Zaibach keep, and the people should be pissed at them. They certainly were pissed in all of the other Zaibach regions they'd been through on their sojourn, but Castelle—Castelle was like a fairytale land untouched by the war. It was all green pastures and charming cottages with gardens that grew flowers and fruits of great variety and impossible color. Everyone owned a carriage with at least two ponies to pull it. All the ladies wore petticoats and the gentlemen carried handkerchiefs.

A group of road-wearied soldiers passing through on their way to Ackbard County to pay respects to the family of a dead comrade aroused nothing more than mild curiosity. After Miguel and his friends had settled into Miss Agatha's Sweet Inn and had bathed and changed out of their riding clothes, curiosity became blatant interest. Apparently soldiers were boring, but seven handsome, young and unmarried men were news. It had been a while since Miguel was simply thought of as a young, handsome and unmarried man. To the people of Astoria, he was Lt. Colonel Lavariel, a hero. To Celena, he was…well, he didn't know what he was, but it certainly wasn't a young, handsome and unmarried man—maybe sparring partner with benefits or Spring Fling, despite what Sir Allen wanted to make of the relationship.

"…while it's nice to have a place to stay where people won't slit our throats in our sleep; it's still kind of creepy. How can these people be so… unaware? It's like their country fell apart around them, but their safety dome made of glitter and buttery sprinkles kept them protected, and blind. There is such despair all around. Why don't they go out and try to share some of… of this… frivolity with their fellow countrymen?"

Was Shesta still talking?

"It's disgusting to me. I mean—Miguel, are you even listening?" Shesta's voice was so shrill when annoyed.

Miguel sighed, and trailed his long fingers into the satin lined box for another—hey! He sat up straight, heavy-lidded eyes now wide and alert. He whipped his head around to glare at Shesta who held his box of sweets. The blond, whose silly bowl cut had grown out into a shoulder length mane, glared right back.

"I swear this place is like something you read about in children's story where once you eat the food or drink the wine you'll stay forever. Snap out of it! We've been settled in all of an hour and look at you!"

Miguel couldn't help but grin. Look at him. He wore tan slacks and a white button shirt with most of the buttons undone. His shoes were simple slide-on's the same color of his pants. He hadn't even put on a belt. "Can't we take a little break and have a bit of a vacation, Shesta? We've been cleaning up one country and now scouring another for months. No one is actually expecting us in Ackband County, so we don't actually have to get there in a week's time. Let's prolong our one night stay to…" … a one month stay?

Shesta rattled Miguel's chocolates not looking ready to give them back any time soon. His blue eyes were laced with menace, as if daring Miguel to complete the suggestion.

"Um…okay. Well, Viole is from near here. Maybe he wants to see his family! We have to give him time for a reunion." Miguel patted himself on the back mentally. So Viole claimed to never want to see the crazy women that comprised his family ever again, and a week earlier had actually suggested a course of travel that would have taken them _around_ Castelle. In the end, Dilandau had vetoed the path, because it would have taken them through mountains and added a week to their travel time, but he had seemed concerned about Viole's reasons to not want to come through Castelle.

Shesta rattled Miguel's chocolates again, a few threatened to topple onto the floor.

"Careful!" Miguel complained.

"Viole has never been so cagey. I'm actually glad he went off with Dallet and Guimel. How much do you want to bet they ended up in a bar somewhere?" Shesta settled the box of chocolates in his lap and extracted one, studying the rounded mound of cocoa delight in his palm. Miguel licked his lips. Just how long was Shesta planning to hold his hoard hostage?

Miguel snorted. "A place like this wouldn't have bars. It'd have vineyards and lounges. In fact, I'm surprised they haven't come back by now. Maybe Viole's run into some old friends." As much as Viole tried to convince Miguel that he hadn't had any friends in his former life, Miguel found it hard to believe. Viole made friends everywhere he went. He could be comfortable anywhere. How could he live in a place most of his life and not have an army of followers calling on him at all hours of the night? He'd been rich enough, and he wasn't a troll.

Shesta hummed and bit into the chocolate. His blue eyes lit up, and he pushed the rest of the candy into his mouth and reached for another.

"No way, Shesta; get your own!" Miguel shouted. He reached for the box only to have Shesta hold it just out of arm's reach.

"Don't be so selfish, Miguel. You ate more than half the box by yourself. If you want to still fit those pants tomorrow, you best let me deal with the rest." Shesta talked around a second piece of chocolate.

Miguel glowered. Miguel Time was officially ruined.

Dilandau and Gatty chose that moment to return from wherever they'd vanished to. They wore navy blue shorts and white collared shirts that Miguel knew they hadn't packed. Both were flushed, hair spiked with sweat, and looking pleased with themselves.

"What have you guys been up to?" Shesta asked, chewing another chocolate. The smell of caramel and cream had Miguel out of his chair and half in Shesta's lap, attacking the other boy for the box.

They struggled, Shesta getting Miguel in the eye with his fingers a few times. The box overturned and the dull thud of multiple chocolates hitting the carpeted floor ended the brawl.

"Look what you did!" Shesta yelled at the same time as Miguel.

Dilandau and Gatty stared at them as if they'd grown second heads.

"Um… we played a few rounds of racquetball using the indoor court. What have you two been up to?" Gatty spoke slowly, using a "talking to spooked horses" voice. Miguel resented it.

"I was having a pleasant evening until Shesta ruined it, complaining about this place and then stealing my candy," Miguel huffed.

Shesta sighed. "It's all just a little too perfect."

Dilandau ran a hand through damp silver hair and nodded. "I agree; it does seem surreal, but…"

"You're enjoying yourself," Shesta said.

"Well, yeah. Have Viole, Guimel or Dallet been back at all?"

"No," Shesta said.

"Think they found a bar?" Gatty asked.

"I doubt this place has the kind of bars they like to go to," Dilandau said, a hint of worry shading his tone. "Maybe they ran into someone Viole knew."

Miguel wanted to laugh, but the look on Dilandau's face let Miguel know that laughter was not appropriate. "That's what I said to Shesta."

"You think there could be trouble?" Gatty asked. His dark blue eyes lost a bit of their earlier pleasure and gained a gleam of protective violence. "We should look for them."

"Well…" Dilandau began, but turned his head as they all did at the slow commotion centering around the courtesy desk at the front of the lobby. Locals liked to frequent the Inns in town for meals and daily spoils, Miss Agatha, the owner, had informed them at check-in. Men and women dressed in their summer finery chatted excitedly; some younger women clapping their hands. It was like a crowd gathering to buy tickets to a superb show.

Miguel wondered what was playing that night.

Two young women left the counter, giggling and fanning themselves with large bird feather fans, stitched together with blue lace. Before they could pass by Miguel, he called to them.

"Excuse me, ladies."

They stopped, turned, giggled and blushed at his unbuttoned shirt. Miguel smiled, hoping his dimple was showing and smoothed a lock of hair behind his ear. The women blushed deeper, and Miguel inwardly preened. "May I ask what all the excitement is about?"

The shorter woman with freckles bounced on the balls of her feet. "Oh, haven't you heard? The Count has returned!"

"The Count?" Miguel questioned. He felt and then smelled Dilandau and Gatty coming to stand beside him. _Phew_, they were ripe. Shesta joined them.

"Count Castelloni! He's only been missing for years, and now he's back and still single!"

_Count Castelloni_? Miguel blinked. Castelloni was Viole's surname, and he was a noble by birth. By the gods--

"Viole Castelloni?" Dilandau asked.

The young women nodded so swiftly Miguel feared their heads would fly off their necks.

"His Right Honorable Count Viole Castelloni."

Miguel felt a bit of hysteria bubbling inside of him. "He has a title. Viole is a titled heir, and he never told me!"

Dilandau, Gatty and Shesta talked behind his back. Miguel whirled. "Did you hear me? Viole is a titled heir, and he never told me!"

His friends stared at him.

Miguel glared back, and buttoned his shirt. He turned back to the now confused young ladies. "And where was his Right Honorableness discovered?"

"Oh, at that despicable bar on the edge of town."

"I knew they'd find a bar," Shesta muttered.

"Can you give us directions?" Miguel queried; he had a Count to kill.

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Author's Note: All right, so what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Either way, let me know. Please review! Next up is: Dallet!


	10. The Count of Castelloni, Part 3

Author's Note: Hey people. Thank you so much for keeping up with me. I hope you're enjoying this little venture of mine. We got Dallet's POV next. I always forget how flighty he is, until it's time to get into his head. Hope you like it!

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_Dallet_

Normally, Dallet got excited when pretty women took him to "someplace a little more private," but as Viole's sisters—gods, his sisters!—led them to the back of the bar where they kept their dressing room/office Dallet felt like he was walking to the gallows. The crowd parted for them, and no one tried to grab at any asses as courtesy to His Right Honorableness—His Right—friggin—Honorableness! Dallet shook his head as men bowed in deference to Viole, whose face was redder than a ripe cherry tomato.

Guimel nudged Dallet with his elbow, and mouthed: Holy hell!

Dallet seconded that. Hell, he third-ed and fourth-ed that! Behind the revolving stage was a door. One of Viole's sisters—the one that almost looked just like him with bigger eyes and boobs, produced a key from her brassiere and stuck it in a rather antique looking silver lock. The door itself looked like a portal into an old fashion manor, not so different from some of the other stuff Dallet had noticed in the bar, like the heavy wooden furniture and the friggin' crystal coasters! Who used crystal coasters in a bar? Hell, who used coasters?

It opened into a backroom that was like a life-sized version of a dollhouse fit for a princess, complete with thick, purple drapes, those pointless, little round pillows that went flat under your ass, and rugs made of white fur. Boxes full of make-up and random trays of perfume littered the table tops. A large vanity in the back of the room sported three connected mirrors in front of three high backed chairs ornamented with silver and rhinestones. Dallet squinted, or were those friggin diamonds? Who put diamonds in a chair?

The heavy door latched shut behind them like a lock clicking on a guillotine, securing the poor sap about to get his head lopped off. Dallet saw Viole gulp; he really looked like he was about to be sick. Dallet was ready to leap the other way. There was a lot of stuff he could deal with, decapitation, bad seafood, flat beer, but vomit? No way.

"Well, well, look who's decided to come crawling back to Mother Dear. She sent you, didn't she?" The one with the sweetheart bloomers had a high, scratchy voice, like the wicked witch in the story about kids getting fattened up and eaten for dinner. Horrible story that; Dallet felt the witch was dealt an injustice. The kids had been eating her house after all, why should the witch get the axe in the end?

Viole held up both hands in an "I mean no harm" stance. He backed right into the one who looked like him and yelped. The girl dug a very long, blood red fingernail into the small of his spine.

"What is she offering now?" Viole's doppelganger had a nasally, strident voice that carried well. Dallet bet she could screech with the best of them.

"L---look Viola, I don't know…"

"You smell like you've been sleeping with a peasant!" said the one wearing the hot pink brassiere. "Viole Lucca Castelloni have you been sleeping with the servant class?" Now, this one's voice was actually rather pleasant, like honey in wine.

Viole's eyes went wide, his face so white Dallet looked at the floor expecting to see blood pooling at his feet. "I…."

"You've been sleeping with servants!" Sweetheart crowed. "How disgusting! A bath in a million perfumes will never get the stench off you!"

"Now you wait one minute, Vanessa! You're out there in your underwear letting sailors pinch your ass…"

Pink Brassier gave Viole's hair a sharp tug. "Watch your mouth! Is this what that peasant has taught you?"

Viole rubbed at his head, glaring at Pink Brassier. "N—no! I learned that from the army! Now… what in the hell is going on here, Verruca?"

Viola, Vanessa and Verruca. What was up with all the V's? Was Viole's mother prejudiced against other letters? "V" could not be an easy letter to find names for. Until now, Dallet had only known a handful of people with a name that started with a "V".

"What do you mean what the hell is going on here? You interrupted my show is what's going on!' Viola smacked Viole on the shoulder, hard. Viole clutched his arm and stared at her wild-eyed, like she was a rabid dog.

"You were gyrating in shorts that I wore when I was like 7 in front of a bunch of—of--" Viole bit his lip and suddenly, as if he'd just remembered about Dallet and Guimel being with him, looked over his shoulder at them, apologetically.

Was he going to say _commoners_?

Damn nobles.

"These shorts pay the bills!" Viola said, voice growing shriller with each passing second.

"Why do you need to pay bills? What is this? I know Mother Dear didn't sign off on this—is that why you think she sent me here?" Viole gazed around the room, looking anywhere but at his sisters. Dallet supposed if his sisters were standing in front of him in hot pants and bras, he wouldn't be too comfortable either. He felt a pang in his gut as he thought of his little sisters. They hadn't made it to their teens, so he didn't have to worry about any of this, but it didn't make him happy.

Vanessa narrowed her eyes at Viole, studying him intently. Viole seemed to shrivel under her gaze. "Sit down."

Viole hesitated a moment, twitching like he thought a net and whale harpoons were gonna shoot out of the pale, patterned wall paper any minute. This room was so girly it made Dallet itch and Viole was making him jumpy. When fellow soldiers looked ready for battle, it made a guy wary. Maybe the girls were bodysnatching demon whores who needed human sperm to fertilize their evil eggs….

Guimel stepped on his foot. "Stop spazzing out."

Good old Guimel. Dallet hoped a demon whore laid one of those evil eggs right in his….

"Are these your attendants?" the sweet-voiced Verruca asked, nodding at Dallet and Guimel.

"Er…."

"His attendants?" Guimel's complexion went ruddy. "Hell no, lady! We're---"

"Low born," Verruca said moving swiftly and ending up beside Guimel, close enough to—she buried her delicate nose in his shirt and took a deep whiff. Phew—they'd been on the road a few days, and no one had time to do much washing. The poor girl was gonna die from asphyxiation.

Her head popped up, dark blue eyes bright. "Of peasant stock… A bastard… but…" another sniff, "relatively well-funded, monetary gain is far beyond normal standard. A vassal to a monarch, perhaps."

_What the f---_

"A knight?" Viola seemed interested. Vanessa sneered.

Guimel backed away, his face screaming: _What the…._

Viole sat. "Can someone please tell me why you run a bar, why Grandma Castelloni's furniture is in a bar, and why Viola is wearing my shorts?" He played with an empty crystal decanter on the table in front of him. Dallet wondered if Viole wished it had liquor in it. Dallet would want liquor. Damn, he wanted liquor now.

All three she-V-monsters, the one with the voice of a witch, the one with the needle nails, and the one with nose of a damned bloodhound—_What the friggin f_---all sat down across from Viole, proper as Princess Millerna or Princess Eries. Like they weren't done up like two-bill alley whores. Viola even folded one leg over the other, though it was more vulgar than proper the way those shorts rode up. Maybe they really had been Viole's when he was 7.

Viole leaned in, almost putting his elbows and the table and stopping. What, bad manners? Dallet thought it was only the dinner table you weren't supposed to put your elbows on. That particular rule of etiquette never stopped him, but hey, he knew about it.

"If Mother Dear didn't send you, then what are you doing here Baby Brother?" Verruca of the bloodhound genes asked. She sounded like such a sweet girl; it was a tragedy to learn she was half werewolf. Looks like Viole's "Mother Dear"—Mother friggin Dear—had an extramarital affair.

"Through no choice of mine, believe me! If I'd had my way, we'd be halfway through Brisorne Mountains by now--"

"So you can sleep with more peasants no doubt, and what is this company you keep! Didn't we teach you better than this?" Vanessa pounded the table with a dainty fist that Dallet was sure could, and probably had, blacken many male eyes.

"Vanessa, why are you running a--"

"And just _where_ have you been, anyway? I don't believe _you_ joined the army—a circus, maybe. You don't even seem happy to see us! It's been, what, three years! You're practically a man, now!"

Viole's mouth opened and closed.

"I bet you've bedded thousands of peasants, you irredeemable whore-monger! I always knew the second you escaped, you would roll in the dirt with…."

"Now just one cotton picking minute!" Dallet wasn't going to sit here and be compared to dogs and pigs and whatever else these lady-beasts likened so-called "low born" to.

"You both look like you pick cotton, and smell like it too! And what is the matter with your hair? Can't you afford a decent hairstylist?" Verruca pointed at Guimel's head and waved her arms.

Dallet smothered a chuckle in a fake cough that Guimel glared at him for. Maybe Guy would get that curly bush on his head cropped short for good.

"Okay, Miss I Can't Buy A Push-Up Bra Good Enough to Make People Think I Have A Decent Rack is not allowed to talk about anyone else in this room—hell, on this planet!" Guimel was in the bloodhound's face.

Ooh, low blow. The Verruca-Beast actually looked wounded.

"Viole, are you going to let this peasant talk to me like---"

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" Viole slammed both palms down on the table, and it shook with impressive force.

Verruca adjusted her brassiere and cleared her throat. Viola uncrossed her legs, much to Dallet's satisfaction. If the girls had acted anything like this before Viole had run away, Dallet knew why he'd done it—didn't he have 4 more sisters?—but even beastly sisters could warrant surges of brotherly rages when men stared at them. Dallet didn't want Viole decking him for autonomic responses to underdressed stimuli.

"Mother Dear kicked us out," Vanessa said, flatly.

Viole blinked. "Come again?"

"She kicked us out," Viola said. "She told us to get out and to never darken her doorstep again or we'd be the death of her. Really, that woman and her vapors! I was more than happy to get away…."

"Why did she kick you out?" Viole asked, incredulity cast an odd glow on his features. "You all—don't seem to be married. She wouldn't let you live alone, unwed."

What? Where Dallet was from people put their kids out all the time once they got old enough to be married off or work for real wages. Too many mouths in one place was a stretch. Why would someone keep three harpy girls around when they were old enough to be on their own? But then again, Princess Eries, who had to be ancient, still moped around the castle. King Aston probably had it written in his will that she could haunt those halls forever. Pretty lady—but weird.

"We won't marry who she picked out for us," Vanessa said, playing with her skirt-thing, a frilly bit of annoyance.

Understanding crossed Viole's face. "Oh…", then the incredulity was back with a vengeance. "Wait, you turned down marriage arrangements? But—but Mother Dear only chooses rich guys with land and titles and--"

"Liver spots!" Viola crowed. "The one she chose for me is so old he wouldn't know me from a goat. Lame in the mind, eyes, and thankfully groin."

"So what? He'll die soon and you get everything…"

"It's the Baron of Custance."

"Isn't he like 170 years old?" Viole asked.

"Oh, no, that was his father. The old fart finally died, by the way. This is the new master, and he's only a spry 100! The old dog will live another 50-60 years, just like his father and his father's father before him!" Viola groaned, and Viole nodded his agreement.

"Longevity is their family gift."

"A curse to the second, third, fourth, and fifth wives who have to put up with their antiquity until they themselves finally die and escape!" Viola said. "I refuse to marry him. I want to marry Troy Mancusso."

"But he's…."

"Do not say a bastard! He's going to inherit. His father didn't have any sons, and he's going to be the Viscount of Glousberry."

Viole sighed loudly. "Mother Dear will never approve…"

"I don't care!" Viola huffed. "But now Troy can't marry me, because Mother Dear's threatened to disinherit me."

"So…" Viole began, but Vanessa cut him off.

"I'm having an affair with Garret Beaubier."

Viole stared at her. "But he'll never inherit the family title; he's a fifth son."

"Which is why Mother Dear's set me up with Henry Beaubier!"

"The oldest. What's wrong with him?" Viole scratched his head.

"He's got moles! Big hair moles—everywhere—and a strange affinity to his horse!"

"He always was a strange one," Viole muttered. "But he'll be an earl. I thought you all wanted riches…."

"I want love!" Vanessa yelled.

"I want a good-looking thing that will be the envy of my friends!" Viola declared.

"I never want to marry!"

Viole turned to Verruca, aghast. "What?"

"I want to be free and have affairs with whomever I choose…"

Now all three siblings stared at Verruca like she was nuts. Dallet wanted to applaud them for finally realizing it.

So, what the hell was going on here? These three priss queens, all bred to be some noble lord's wife, didn't want to marry the guys their mom chose for them? So—"Your mom tossed you all out on the street, because you won't get married?" Dallet asked.

"Not to the men she chose!" Vanessa said.

"Not to anyone," Verruca asserted.

Viole shook his head. "But here's where I don't buy the story. Mother Dear would never just throw you out for good—wait, wait, is that why you thought she'd sent me?"

"Oh every other day, Mindy or old Carlisle comes with presents saying Mother Dear wants us to come home. And every other day we tell them, only if she agrees to break those marriage promises and let us choose who we want to marry!" Viola said.

"And every other day, she says, Never! Just like that. She has Mindy come back and tell us, and you know how uncanny Mindy's mimicry is," Verruca said, perfectly chatty now, like she was sitting down to tea and biscuits.

Viole chuckled lightly, his first smile since—hell, since Dilandau had opened the map and said they would be coming through Castelle.

"And then, in you strut, with your duo of commoners, dressed as a commoner yourself, after 3 years—3 years! What did you expect us to think?" Viola reached out to grab a fistful of Viole's hair. Viole ducked.

"That maybe I missed you and came to say hi?" Viole croaked.

"You were backing toward the door!"

"Well geez… after seeing my sisters in their undies, I didn't want to puke on your pea-nutty floors or anything! Call me polite…"

"What's with this attitude? I remember when you used to be cute. Do you remember when he was cute, Vanessa?" Verruca asked, still calm and almost regal in her hooker get-up.

"Gods, just—just—How did you end up with a bar?" Viole asked, face buried in his hands. Geez, poor guy was having a breakdown. Dallet glanced at Guimel who was cracking his knuckles, biding his time. He probably wanted another go at Verruca. That'd be funny, Bush (Guimel) against Bloodhound. In nature when dogs approached bushes—

_Well—everybody knows what happens_.

"Don't you remember Grandma Castelloni's shrine to herself?" Vanessa gestured around. "Over there was where a statue of her favorite pet owl was. And just right here was where a statue of her favorite person, herself, was."

Viole gasped. "What—this—that—Oh my gods! You gutted Grandma Castelloni's shrine and turned it into a seedy bar! I'm so getting outta here!"

Viola shoved Viole back down in his chair when he tried to bolt. Dallet's hands went for the sword he wasn't wearing. Dammit. Unarmed at the worst of times. They were going to have to fight their way out. And they all thought they wouldn't see any action in this town.

"I ain't getting haunted by the ghost of that mean old lady cause you guys decided to be whores and make her temple into a brothel!" Viole wailed. "Let me up!"

"Oh please! Do you still believe in ghosts?"

Ghosts? The hair on Dallet's neck stood at attention. Oh, no way. Dallet didn't do ghosts. If he broke this chair over his knee, he could use a leg of it as a make-shift sword.

"She left this place to Vanessa in her will! She said she could do whatever she wanted with it!" Verruca said.

"Yeah, cause she never thought you'd---"

"Oh get over it; we need your help," Viola kept a firm hand tangled in Viole's now rumpled shirt.

Huh? Dallet's eyes wandered around the room, checking for see-through figures and wispy pin-curls. They needed help? Where had that come from? Had they asked for it?

"H—help? Psychological? Look, I'm no therapist…or exorcist…"

"Shut up!" Viola snapped and Viole's mouth closed.

Well. That never worked when Miguel did it.

"Have you gone to see Mother Dear yet?" Vanessa asked.

"Uh… no," Viole said, looking at his knees. "Er…"

"You weren't planning to, were you? You were going to come through town and not say anything to any of us, weren't you? You rude little—do you guys remember when he used to be sweet?" Verruca turned to her sisters.

If Mother Dear was anything like these girls, Dallet didn't want to say anything to her either. The nicest and most heavenly of the heavenliest angels from all of the seven great heavens wouldn't blame Viole for not wanting to say anything.

"I… I'm on a mission!" Viole cleared his throat, and gripped Viola's hand, pulling it from his shirt. "I'm on a misson!" Was that bass coming into Viole's voice? He sat up a little straighter and seemed a little taller in the faces of the she-devils.

_Whoo! Let's hear it for Viole—wait, was that a wispy pin-curl? _

"For you information, I did join the army, and for your information, I'm a war hero, and for your information, my title is Lt. Colonel Castelloni, and for you information—I'm still cute! Lots of people think so!"

"There's our boy," Guimel grunted. "So, as you can see ladies, we have important business to attend to…."

"And that business led you to a bar?" Viola asked with a raised brow. She was recovering nicely from her shock. The girls looked at Viole as if they'd made an amazing discovery.

"Well…ah…" Guimel rubbed his stubbly chin. Shaving regularly was also hard to do while traveling.

"Thought so," Viola smirked. "So… if you have time to come to bars, you have time to help damsels in distress right, Lt. Colonel. So, who are they, your lackeys?" She addressed her brother, but referred to Dallet and Guimel.

Dallet bristled and Guimel growled low in his throat.

"They're my comrades. We fought together. Meet Lt. Colonel Guimel Lautens, and Lt. Colonel Dallet Rosseau," Viole's tone was as snooty as Miguel's when defending his choice of flowery cologne in the evenings. "Show them some respect."

"Equating yourself with the help." Vanessa tisked.

"We're leaving." Viole made to rise again, and this time Viola caught his arm, not his hair or clothing, and her gasp didn't leave marks on his skin.

"Apologize Vanessa," Viola said.

"What—but…"

"We need his help if we want to get out of this place and these clothes, and back into the house!" Viola said, glaring at Vanessa. Verruca was silent, not taking either side.

Viole held Vanessa's cool gaze and Vanessa sighed.

"Fine. I apologize most profusely, because I humbly agree that I need the help of Count Castelloni."

Viole's hard disposition melted as he cringed at the title. "I'm not the…"

"Father's been gone without a trace for 10 years. The law here declared him dead 6 months ago; long live the new Count. And since you are the Count, the estate and control of the family is yours. You can void any marriage arrangements and make new ones. You have the power now; you just have to go home and claim it."

Viole gulped. "I don't want…"

"Baby Brother, as our newly declared dead father could tell you if he were here, it's never about what any of us wants, is it? We need you to do this."

Viole wringed his hands together on the table. The sisters stared at the empty crystal decanter, and Dallet wondered if they wished there was liquor in it too.

Damn, Dallet wanted some liquor if only to give it to Viole, who looked ready to raid the bar for every drop of ale in it.

"Vi, you don't have to do anything you don't want," Guimel said. "Let them deal…."

"This isn't any of your b---"

A tentative knock at the door.

Verruca stopped mid-shriek. All eyes went to the door. "Who in the world could that be? No one comes back here, but us." She stalked to the door in two long strides and threw it open to reveal a diminutive middle-aged woman. "Mindy?"

"Mindy!" Viole was all smiles. Finally, he was glad to see someone. Hey—was this the lady who did impressions? Awesome. Dallet wondered if she could do Lord Dryden. Oh wait, she probably didn't know him…

"My Lord." Mindy curtsied, then cleared her throat.

"Have you come from Mother Dear, Mindy?" Verruca demanded.

"Um, no… actually, there are several young men outside who would like an audience with the Count."

All heads swiveled to Viole who blushed. "I'm not the…"

"Tell His Right Honorableness to get his royal bum out here right now."

Miguel?

Viole groaned and looked to the decanter. "Anyone else here wish that thing had liquor in it?"

* * *

You know the spiel. What's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Either way, let me know. Please review!

Next up is: Shesta.


	11. The Count of Castelloni, Part 4

_Author's Note: So, I lied. This isn't Shesta. After two false starts, Dilandau decided to take charge and host this section. I hope you like it. I'm not going to tell you who's next, because I'll probably change it again._

_Dilandau_

"Viole, I'm positive that she's still following us," Dilandau said, looking over his shoulder for Viole's female doppelganger. Viola had claimed Dilandau as her own and glued herself to his arm milliseconds after Verruca pulled a Migs and used her nose to determine his social standing. Dilandau was very accustomed to weird things happening to and around him, and that by no means had been the weirdest or creepiest, but good gods, who did that?

Viole sighed. "No, she's not. Viola doesn't like being outside for long; says nature clogs her pores or some crap like that."

More than all that mud she had caked on her face? Dilandau raised a brow, but said nothing. Viole didn't seem to be in the mood to talk. Miguel, Shesta, Gatty and Dilandau had entered the "bar"—though Dilandau would have called it a powder room with beer—only to run into a servant there in the name of Countess Castelloni. The tiny woman quickly escorted them to a backroom where three vampire bats claiming to be Viole's relations descended on them. It was all downhill from there. It ended with a screaming match between the estranged Castelloni siblings and Viole storming out of the bar claiming that the day he helped she-beasts would be the day he stripped naked and tap-danced on Sir Allen's melef in broad daylight while singing the Zaibach national anthem. Dilandau wondered what Allen would say to that. He'd probably toss up a squeegee and some soap. Wash it while you're at it.

They walked in a tight-knit cluster down the cobbled path from the bar back to the inn. Cottages that had their lights out as they passed flipped them on, inhabitants leaning out the windows to stare at the Count and his "court". Dilandau supposed they made a strange procession through town. Miguel seethed at Dilandau's shoulder. He'd been silent since the same sister that had sniffed Dilandau and deemed him noble by birth and highly favored by multiple monarchs, had deemed him noble, but without hope of attaining a title unless he committed major fratricide. All interest in Miguel had been dropped like a bad habit, and Guimel, Dallet and Gatty falling over themselves laughing didn't help to improve his mood.

Okay, so Dilandau laughing didn't really improve his mood either, but Miguel had looked so funny. Then, Viola, fangs out, latched onto Dilandau and claimed she would "accept" him as a suitor, like she was doing him a favor.

"I think we should leave this place immediately," Miguel growled. "The atmosphere is stifling and the food's going to make me fat."

Guimel, Dallet and Gatty snickered behind them. Dilandau bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

"Hm, just an hour ago you wanted to extend our stay and sit on your bum in a fluffy bathrobe eating chocolates," Shesta said with a smirk. He walked on the other side of Viole.

Miguel snarled. "You were the one who-! You know what, never mind that. Viole is right. This place is insane…."

"Only because you've been knocked off your royal pony, Ex-Prince Miguel. All bow down to His Right Honorable-oof!" Viole's elbow caught Dallet in the solar plexus.

"Shut up, Dallet."

"Geez. I was just playing man. Chill."

Dilandau turned to give Dallet a silencing look. No one spoke again until they reached the inn.

"Um… I guess I'm going to bed," Dallet said, faking a yawn. Guimel frowned at him, ready to argue, but Dallet grabbed his bicep. "Guy too. Night." Dallet dragged Guimel through the doors of the inn with Guimel grumbling after him about wanting to stick around and hear "the talk."

Shesta looked from Viole to Dilandau, then back at Gatty. "I suppose we ought to go to bed too, Gatty. We'll be riding out early, I think."

Viole stood still as Gatty and Shesta brushed by him to enter the inn. Dilandau didn't know whether he should be flattered or annoyed that all his friends assumed that Dilandau would have some kind of heart-to-heart with Viole now. If anyone should have a heart-to-heart with Viole, it should be Miguel, but Miguel hurried inside after Shesta and Gatty without a word. Dilandau didn't know a thing about being titled nobility by birthright other than most of the ones he met were spoiled prigs, Dryden included. He couldn't very well say that to Viole.

Viole sighed again and Dilandau's gaze slid to him. His friend looked defeated, shoulders slumped, head down. "You don't have to try to think of some pep talk to assure me that leaving my sisters and Mother Dear to deal with their own mess is okay."

Dilandau blinked. Now that was surprising. "I didn't think you needed assurance for that. Those women are…" Heavens help him "…worse than Celena!" Dilandau frowned. "Do you feel bad for not wanting to help them?"

Viole shrugged. "I guess. I mean, I kind of went out to my riding lesson one day and never came back. I missed several weddings and I know I probably missed births of nieces and nephews, and… Well, for me to be given the title of Count means they've officially declared my dad dead to Castel, and I don't know how Mother Dear took that plus Viola, Verruca and Vanessa turning Grandma's shrine into a bar."

Dilandau smiled and placed a hand on Viole's shoulder. "Vi, do you miss your mom?"

Viole puffed out his cheeks. "No! That woman drove me nuts! She put me in bow ties and ankle length skirts that she called man-skirts! She made me do pageants and take dance lessons!"

Dilandau didn't say anything. Sometimes, Viole just needed to talk things out by himself. If he came in smiling, the group would attribute it to Dilandau's excellent counseling skills, and Dilandau wouldn't correct them.

"She gave me birthday parties with pink ribbons and pastries like I was a girl! She used to kiss me and use her handkerchiefs to clean me up in public, when I was 12! She decorated my room with ponies and pastel flowers and probably kept it that way! She let my sisters dress me in drag. She-"

Dilandau waited.

"-only had me to make my dad stay, but he didn't, and she never failed to inform me of that whenever I displeased her. I failed her by not making him stay; failed her by not doing what she wanted me to well enough. She never asked me what I wanted to do, never cared what I wanted to do, and she was the same way with the girls. I got away; they didn't."

"And so you want to help them?" Dilandau asked.

"Maybe."

Dilandau began to walk, not looking behind him to see if Viole followed. The outdoor tennis court was in sight, the moonlight bathing it as effective as street lamps. Two rackets sat unattended on a wooden bench; a pale yellow ball rested against the low net. He stepped onto the court, rubber soled shoes crunching across the green pebbles filling in the court. A beat later, he heard a second pair of rubber soled shoes crunching across the pebbles.

Dilandau grabbed a racket and tossed it over his shoulder.

A yelp was heard, but not a clatter. Good reflexes, Soldier.

Dilandau claimed a racket for himself and retrieved the ball from the net. He tossed it into the air, catching it on the racket and bouncing it up and down. He knew Viole was watching him.

"Aren't you going to say something profound?" Viole asked after a minute of staring.

The ball hitting the racket made a soft pinging noise.

"Why?"

"Because—because you usually do," Viole said. He sounded like he was scratching his head. "You know everybody left because they thought we were going to have this grand 'talk', right?"

"Hn." Without warning, Dilandau served the ball to Viole and raced to the other side of the court.

Viole yelped again, returning the ball with a wicked backhand.

Dilandau bounced on his toes, running to catch and return the shot.

"Well, do you want something profound?"

Viole smacked the ball back on Dilandau's side. "Uh…"

"I'm not a profound guy, Viole. I tell it like I see it, and as I see it, we're not in a hurry. It wouldn't hamper us to swing by your mom's place, if you want to peek in the windows. You're a man now, Viole. No one here can make you do anything; it's not like she can put you in tap shoes and a bow tie now. What could it hurt to go and see for yourself what's going on? I mean, after all, you're not planning on sticking around long term and making things here your problem."

The ball fell in Viole's court, bounced twice and rolled to rest against the toe of Viole's boot. "Do you…"

Dilandau tapped the racket against his thigh.

"Do you think I should—should go see Mother Dear—see if I can do something to help my sisters, even though they're blood-drinking witch-harpy-trolls?" Viole asked.

"If we leave here and you didn't, would you think about it later?" Dilandau asked.

Viole bit his lip and hung his head. "Yeah."

"Then, you just answered your own questions. Now serve that ball and give me a decent game. I need to be tired enough to go to sleep tonight and not dream about your harpy-troll sister."

"You're one to talk!" Viole picked up the ball and tossed and caught it with one hand.

"Hey, my sister's only a troll. Yours are hybrid trolls."

The ball whizzed past Dilandau's head and he grinned.

"Point for me!" Viole hooted.

"Your only point. Get ready to lose."

* * *

Author's Note: So what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well, either way, let me know. Please review! Take care!


	12. The Count of Castelloni, Part 5

_Author's Note: Whoo hoo! I'm on a roll. Let's see if I can finish this one within the week. Once again, I won't say who's next because I'm not sure who's going to work with me or not. Thank you for the great responses!_

_Miguel_

Viole must have come in late the night before, because Miguel had slept through his return. He awoke with Viole already in the adjoining bathroom taking a shower; hot air and the scent of fresh soap poured from beneath the wooden door. He sang an off-key bar tune he must have learned from Guimel or Dallet, or maybe even his actress girlfriend. An actress, really. As a count, Viole would have to do better than that. He would have to start talking to the ladies at court.

Miguel didn't know what he thought about this. Sure, he thought about status and class all the time, but until now it hadn't really mattered as much as everyone thought it did to him. Miguel could put his nose in the air and claim better breeding all he wanted, but when it came down to it, he was the eighth and youngest son of a moderately wealthy baron who would have eventually been cast out of the barony or murdered by one of his older brothers seeking the title for fear of treason. Even had his brothers been kind and honest people and Miguel had been allowed to remain and reach 21, he would have been married off to a woman of higher social standing perhaps, in hopes of gaining whatever title her father could bestow. And that was only if he was lucky. He could have ended up like his cousin Fernando, the youngest son of 12. He wound up with a few acres of land, a rundown manor, two servants that ran away, and a mule for a wife.

It was much better to abandon it all, on his own terms, and be a soldier, a Lt. Colonel, a made noble that good people could smell good breeding on and respect him all the more.

Viole, an only son, and a count at that. Count was ranks above baron. How could someone with such a background turn out like Viole? Miguel had always figured him to be a lesser noble, no title; perhaps, rented lands. He'd thought, maybe Viole'd been from a family that oversaw a farm worked by servants. Viole's manners were awful. His speech left much to be desired. He didn't even know the proper way to fold a handkerchief. But thinking about that now, perhaps it was because he'd never had to fold them himself.

A count—and he'd never breathed a word of it to Miguel.

Why?

After a night to think about why he was so angry, now Miguel was just a bit sad to know that Viole hadn't told him, might not have ever told him. Why didn't he? Did he think Miguel would act differently toward him, wish for him to act differently, tell other people?

_Doesn't he trust me?_

The shower turned off. Miguel heard a towel being pulled from the rack and damp feet shuffling across the tiled bathroom floor. The door opened, and steam billowed around Viole as he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist and turbaned over his hair. His dark blue eye gazed at Miguel, and he cleared his throat.

"Good morning." That was it. He moved to his bed and pulled his knapsack from under it. He dumped the contents of it out on his bed and rifled through his balled up garments for something to wear. Miguel rolled his eyes. He hated that Viole never folded anything, never took care of his clothing. He'd probably never had to, but he should care how he looked, what face he presented to the public. He was the… dare he say it…friggin'… Count of Castelloni.

"Good morning." Miguel's own clothes were neatly folded on a chair beside the bed.

Viole shed his towels, then pulled a black tunic over his head and shimmied into black breeches. He added a belt, a dagger and ran a brush through his hair. "Um… well, I… think I'm going to see Mother Dear today; so, we won't be leaving early after all. If you wanted to enjoy yourself a little longer, feel free."

Miguel nodded and Viole bit his lip. He stepped into his black boots, still watching Miguel. "Look Miguel, I'm—I'm sorry about all this hitting you over the head. I would have told you before, but it just never seemed important. I mean, what kind of conversation do you have where you can casually insert, oh yeah, if my dad croaks I'll be a count. Or if my probably sterile uncle never has any male children, I'll be a duke-"

"A duke!" Miguel jumped to his feet. "Come again! What?"

Viole blinked. "Oh… yeah. Well, I mean, no more secrets, right? Cause you're my best friend and I don't want you to be mad at me about something like…well, like this, because it's stupid. Like Dilandau said, it's not like I'm even gonna stick around, but… I guess it matters to you, so yeah. Uh… this place used to be a small kingdom a long time ago, some of the outlying lands included, named after my great-great-great Grandpa and Grandma Castelloni. Maybe a hundred years ago, Zaibach annexed us, and Castelle became a state, and the king a duke. So, Grandma and Grandpa Castelloni had two sons; my dad was younger, so my uncle is duke and my dad was the count."

Miguel had to use a hand to close his open mouth. "Viole—by blood, you're a prince! A prince in soldier's armor. A prince who eats with his elbows on the table and wears yesterday's wrinkled breeches!"

Viole cringed and played with the dagger in his belt. "I like my wrinkled breeches, and I'm no prince."

Miguel shook his head. "I guess—I mean from what I saw of your sisters, things here might not have been so great socially, but—if I were you, I don't know that I could have given this up. Titles didn't matter to me at home, because I knew I'd never get the title, but for you it's different."

Viole began cramming things back into his knapsack. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

"And that's really why you didn't tell me." Miguel couldn't do anything to take the hurt out of his tone. "No, no I don't understand, but I'm willing to try. I would have tried. Maybe I have some things I would have talked about with you, if you shared with me."

"Things like what?" Viole struggled to close his bag. He glanced over at Miguel through his bangs.

Miguel shrugged. A feeling rose from his gut into his throat, the feeling he associated with home, and he forced himself to swallow it. It was bitter and salty, like sweat and lemon rinds; hard work without acknowledgment. "Like… how it felt to want a title I'd never get, because I thought it'd make people treat me like I was worth more. Not just people—I wanted the Baron to look up when I entered the room; I wanted Mother to wait dinner because I hadn't arrived yet. All my brothers hated me; they hated each other. All they saw were threats; they all wanted to become the Baron. The brother closest in age to me tried to drown me during a bath—I was 3; he was 7."

Viole came to sit beside Miguel on the bed. "My whole life no one wanted be my friend for the sake of friendship. They all wanted future favor and appointments. All the nobles surrounded me like workers bees trying to knock up the queen bee. Let me get this for you, let me wipe your butt for you; don't trust Lady This, or keep away from Sir That because he or she only wants to be your friend for status, while I, on the other hand, am kissing your bum because I like you. It made me sick. The regular kids were too scared to talk to me; Mother Dear wouldn't foster me elsewhere. I was so lonely."

Miguel smiled. "I had friends; I wasn't going to be anyone, so no one really had to watch what they said to me. I didn't have anyone who mattered to repeat it to. Like I said, my brothers were all older, they may have hated each other, but they had loyalty of sorts to each other. Such as, the next in line to be baron would befriend the brother closest in age and assure him land and power to keep that brother from trying to have him killed—and maybe to have that brother watch his back. It didn't work out so well, though. Santiago died before I was born, riding accident due to a faulty saddle. Then, Adrian, also before me, poison. Now, I was there for Hector and Eulogio, twins, killed each other in a duel. Alejandro is smart. I bet he's still alive and ready to be formally acknowledged, if he hasn't been already. The Baron was a very old man when I left. He could be dead by now."

"What was he like?" Viole asked. He leaned back on the bed, planting his hands behind him.

"I don't know," Miguel said. He'd never really interacted with his father before. The man didn't have time for him. "Sometimes, I wonder if he even knew my name. There were so many of us. He had bastards too, all daughters, thank gods, or there would be more blood on the family crest. I don't really know what my mother's like either; only she was very, very strict about manners and grooming. She didn't like loud and/or dirty children." He leaned back to duplicate Viole's relaxed posture.

Viole gave him a soft smile. "I didn't really know my dad either. He was away, a lot, always riding out to help the army do this or that. When he was here, he was sad, depressed, all the time. He'd stay in his rooms and never come to meals. Sometimes, though, he'd take me riding. He never said anything, but I kinda liked that. I was tired of people talking at me all the time; tired of being smothered by my sisters and Mother Dear."

Miguel could have had this conversation all day. It was like he'd been carrying sandbags on his shoulders for years. It wasn't like he could talk to Shesta or Gatty or heavens forbid Guimel or Dallet, or even Dilandau like this, about this. They couldn't understand. Though, Viole's situation was different, he was a favored and planned heir, he'd still grown up in one of the great houses and had known the pressures firsthand. Their childhoods were painted the same shade of royal blue. He'd always felt a bit of a bond with Viole. He never liked to openly admit it, but he really had begged Dilandau for Viole as a partner because he thought Viole would be more like him and accept him where the other Slayers hadn't yet. At that time, Miguel was the outcast. Anwar had been Dilandau's first hand at the time, and he was awful; called Miguel Princess and made sure all the other Slayers gave him the cold shoulder. Viole was going to be his backup, his partner, his first real, true friend.

But in those days, Viole actively hid his heritage. It didn't come out to the others that he might be nobility until a year later, but, by then, Anwar had gone and it hadn't mattered anymore to Miguel who begot Viole. They were just friends, but what he felt now with Viole was what he'd hoped for from the start.

Someone knocked at the door.

"Who is it?" Miguel called, annoyed.

"Dilandau."

Viole was on his feet. He opened the door and grinned at the silver-haired boy at the door. "Don't tell me you're up for breakfast?"

Dilandau raised a brow. "I thought you might want company when you went to see your hybrids this morning."

Viole gave Dilandau a light shove and stepped outside the room, closing the door slightly. Miguel didn't try to lean in to hear the conversation, but he was jealous. Miguel loved Dilandau; they all did. He was everyone's best friend, but—everyone in the group had a best friend aside from Dilandau that they were glued to like caramel and pecans: once mixed together there was no separation. Gatty and Shesta. Dallet and Guimel. Miguel and Viole. But lately, it seemed like Dilandau and Viole. It might have been because Miguel spent a lot of time with Celena during their breaks, and Viole couldn't stand the girl.

Whatever it was, it stung. The door opened again and Viole stuck his head in. "Hey Miguel. I know I told you I was gonna go see Mother Dear and you could chill here for a while longer, but uh… do you want to come with me? I'd like it if you did."

Miguel started in surprise. What? Wasn't Dilandau going?

Viole stared at him, blue eyes losing a bit of their former sparkle as he took too long to answer.

"Um… yes. Sure. I'll go with you."

"Great! Be down in thirty minutes." Viole closed the door all the way this time, leaving Miguel to his thoughts.

_Well, I'll be_.

Hm. He eyed the clothes on the chair and looked to his knapsack beside the bed. He hadn't packed for royalty. He wondered if steam from a shower would get rid of the wrinkles in one of his better shirts.

* * *

Author's Note: You know the drill. What the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Any way it is, let me know. Please review! Next part up soon.


	13. The Count of Castelloni, Part 6

_Author's Note: Ok, so I'm not on a major, but I'm updating on a kind of regular basis :). I love having a job where I am free to write when there's nothing to do. I hope you enjoy this next installment. Oh, and I just have to gloat that I went to go see the musical Wicked last Tuesday and it was fantastic! I've been playing the soundtrack nonstop and can't wait to see it again!_

_

* * *

_

_Viole _

"You know, I think I can get used to you being this Count of Castelloni," Dallet said, wrapping an arm around Viole's shoulders. "Free seven course breakfasts, horse drawn cabs complete with chauffeurs, not to mention the ladies that come around wanting to get a few minutes with you that will settle for 'the help.'"

Okay. Viole was so tired of Dallet talking. He was tired of everyone talking. He and Miguel were supposed to be going to visit Mother Dear. Viole had gone down to breakfast with the intent of telling everyone to enjoy their day, he and Miguel would be out, and had instead walked into court in session, ballroom style. The owner herself curtsied to the floor and led Viole into a dining room that had been decked out for "important guests." The fine china and silver were out and all of the dishes served were covered. They brought out roasted pheasants and soft boiled eggs in crystal glasses; breakfast wines with fresh orange juice and shallow dishes with lemon water to cleanse the pallet after each dish.

Gatty and Shesta were already seated at the table, overwhelmed and grateful for Viole's appearance. Guimel and Dallet were in the next room chatting with the maidens anxious to catch a glimpse of the Count. Viole had overheard some of the stupid things they'd promised in exchange for kisses. Dilandau had taken it all in stride by announcing that he didn't eat breakfast and escaping outside, probably to laugh. _Jerk._

The ride down the winding cobbled streets that led to the manor was bumpy. The double horse team pulling the carriage was knowledgeable enough about the path not to crash into any of the large maples shading the trail. Viole sat between Dallet and Guimel, who insisted that Viole sit there, claiming it to be the best seat. Viole was not lost on the fact that several ladies watched how close Dallet and Guimel got to him. _Jerks._

The inside of the cab was paneled with dark wood and draped with crushed blue velvet. The dual bench seats that sat facing each other were padded with feather-stuffed satin pillows embroidered with golden thread. They only fit three neatly, so Viole, Guimel and Dallet sat facing Shesta, Gatty and Miguel. Dilandau sat up front with the driver. He'd said something about wanting to learn to drive the cab. It was strange that the man could pilot any type of melef, ride a horse with the best of them and even fly the Crusade, but he'd never learned to steer a carriage.

They hit another bump so hard Viole's teeth rattled.

"I bet Dilandau's driving," Gatty said.

"What?" Shesta woke up. His eyes had been closed, no doubt falling asleep. "What? Why in the world would anyone let a new driver go through the woods? I want out!" Shesta parted the deep blue curtains covering the window to peer out. Thick tree trunks had them packed in tight.

"I survived a Great War to be killed in a horse drawn carriage," Shesta muttered.

"Oh calm down, you big baby," Guimel snorted. "We're not going that fast. If we crash, nobody'll die."

"Dilandau's not going to crash," Gatty said calmly. Always the faithful one that Gatty.

Shesta shot Gatty a look that was as friendly as Viola's good mornings. She was not a morning person. She wasn't an afternoon person either. Heck, she wasn't a person period. Witch-harpy-troll.

Guimel leaned forward and pushed Shesta back into his seat. "Chill." He then flopped back in his seat and steepled his fingers. "Soooo Count, what should we expect when we get to your pad?"

Viole scowled and removed Dallet's heavy arm from his shoulder. "_We_ shouldn't be expecting anything. _I_ was supposed to be the only one going to my _pad_."

"Hey, you were taking His Dethroned Highness," Dallet said. "No fair to leave the rest of us behind."

"You guys only want to be nosy!" Viole groaned.

"Well, duh." Guimel slapped him on the back. "It's not every day we get to see your castle."

"It's not a castle…." Viole ignored the look Miguel gave him. Miguel was hung up on the "prince" idea. Yeah, so his uncle did live in the castle leftover from the old monarchy days—he sighed. "Do you guys want to see the _real_ castle?

"So you DO have a castle!" Dallet whooped. "Oh yeah! How about a crown and scepter? You got a Dryden get-up or a King Aston get-up?"

Viole shuddered, envisioning both monarchs and their over-done garbs. "Neither."

"Whoo! You have a get-up!" Dallet was fired up. "Dude, you can so totally knight me. I'll be Sir Dallet. That sounds amazing. Sir Dallet of—well, I guess of Astoria. But then again, don't you have to be "of" the place you're knighted? Would I be Sir Dallet of Castelle?"

"I don't know," Viole said, annoyed.

"Hey, just realized something, Castelle, Castelloni, this place is named after you!" Dallet crowed. "What gives? King Aston—Astoria… Van and Folken Fanel, Fanelia. Count Castelloni-Casetlle!"

Miguel rolled his eyes. "Dallet, is it possible for you to shut your mouth for one-"

"Nah, hold it Ex-Highness. I wanna know too," Guimel said.

Viole gazed around the cab to find all eyes on him. Miguel's eyes spoke volumes: Only tell them if you want them to know. But… we're your friends.

He sighed. "All right already, so this place was kingdom, once upon a time. My super great grandparents were kings and queens. Now it's Zaibach-land, and Zaibach had an emperor that didn't want to compete with monarchs, so that was that."

"Long live King Viole!" Dallet cheered.

"Actually… my uncle would be the king."

"Long live Prince Viole!" Guimel shouted, pumping a fist. "Sorry Miguel, you are officially usurped. You can be ah-ah—Frauline!"

"Frauline? What the-!" Miguel reached from where he was and punched Guimel in the chest. Guimel roared with laughter, vaulting forward and grappling with Miguel. Both of them tumbled into the narrow space between the benches where their feet were parked.

"Come on guys! At least act a little dignified," Gatty said, seeming more amused than exasperated. "We are, after all, in the presence of royalty!"

"Royalty that farts and burps at the table," Shesta said flatly. "Did you flunk princely etiquette class?"

Viole stared at his friends. They teased, but didn't look awed. In short, it felt like—well, it seemed like something that would be forgotten in a few days until a joke made it necessary to bring it back up. It was—

It was cool. No big deal. And he'd worried. Miguel was looking at him again, mouthing: Told you so. Viole grinned. Wasn't this the same lesson Miguel had learned months earlier? Nothing was sacred among friends, but it also meant that there were no other people that you could trust more to keep your secrets from outsiders.

"Does Dilandau know? Seems like something you'd tell him."

"If he does, I didn't tell him," Viole said with a shrug. "I only told Miguel."

"You two are keeping secrets now? Isn't that cute?" Dallet cooed. "Soon we'll have to write sad, sad letters to poor Heather and Celena to let them know that their men are consorting with each oth-"

Viole lunged for Dallet, getting him in a headlock.

Gatty and Shesta stared at the wrestling pairs on the floor and on the seat across from them.

"Royalty, indeed," Shesta muttered.

* * *

The cab slowed to a halt about 20 minutes later, and a disheveled Viole parted the curtains to peer out. He saw nothing but trees and shrubs; his stomach gave a lurch when he realized he recognized these trees and those shrubs. They were the ones his father and uncle had planted when they were boys. Father had played here, his future home when he grew old enough to marry, with Uncle Gian. They'd wanted to personalize it. While the fruit trees and purple blossom bearing shrubs weren't as tall or stately as the surrounding trees and shrubs that had been there ages longer, they symbolized home more than their elders.

A trumpet sounded and metal groaned as Viole knew the iron gates that sealed the manor behind a stone wall which wrapped around the estate and its grounds were being opened. The cab bounced slowly as the horses pulling it trotted onto the stone driveway that wound around a white fountain with a cherub centerpiece that spat water from "o" shaped lips. Viole and Viola had broken its wings off once, and Mother Dear had had them spanked. The cab stopped again, for good. The driveway led to the entrance. Viole didn't wait for anyone to come around and open the cab door. He pushed it open himself, before the startled old butler could reach it.

Viole blinked at the old man. "Carlisle?"

Tiny blue eyes twinkled in a pale, crumpled face. Snow white hair curled from his scalp, chin and upper lip, giving him the appearance of a kindly old teddy bear. "Master Viole."

Viole hopped down from the cab onto the driveway, ignoring the stairs. He threw his arms around Carlisle and laughed when the man reciprocated and locked him in a familiar bone crushing hug. Viole patted the man's back: Enough…enough… can't breathe…

Carlisle released him and held him at arm's length. "Well, look at you. Not much different than how you left, hm?"

If he meant rumpled and disheveled, then he was right. Viole self-consciously smoothed his hair down and straightened his clothes. Carlisle laughed; the sound making Viole giddy inside. This was the man who'd taught him—well, how to be a man. He'd been the father Viole lacked, and the only person Viole regretted not telling his plans to run away to.

The others fought their way out of the cab, all wanting to be the first to get out. Dilandau jumped down from the driver's seat; stroking the nose of the horse he was nearest too.

"Are these your friends?" Carlisle asked.

"Yeah," Viole said. "Dilandau, Miguel, Shesta, Gatty, Stupid One and Stupid Two."

Guimel and Dallet balked. "Hey!"

Carlisle twinkled. "I'm glad, Master Viole."

A cold feeling washed over Viole. He remembered a time when he didn't have friends, only Carlisle and Mindy and his-ugh-sisters. "I'm glad too. So, uh, how fares Mother Dear?"

He finally brought himself to look at the manor. It was the same mini fairytale castle made of milky stone with towers and purple and white banners. There were two shallow man-made ponds on either side of it filled with crystal blue water complete with pale pink water lilies. Dainty ash wood, foot bridges that Princess Millerna would probably find quite charming took guests out for a troll over the ponds and into the rock bordered gardens full of petunias, roses and tulips, all pink.

Dallet gave a whistle. "Er… I see where your sisters get their taste from. Very-emasculating."

Viole scowled at it all. "Mother Dear redecorated it herself." He gazed up to the second floor window to see a parted curtain. It closed before he could glimpse the face, but he knew who it was. Now that she'd seen him, there was no running now.

"Come on guys. I'd give you the tour, but Mother Dear has seen us, and she'll have a fit if we don't go inside."

Viole walked up the short staircase and paused in front of the extra wide double doors framed by white columns. The doors opened and two butlers bowed low.

"Welcome home, Your Right Honorableness." They spoke in creepy unison.

Viole cringed and "accidentally" stepped on Guimel's foot as he snickered.

Carlisle came to stand at Viole's side. "The Lady has missed you terribly, Master Viole. I'm glad you've come home to see her. Let me escort you to her parlor."

Viole sighed and nodded. He glanced back at his friends, eyes meeting Dilandau's. His friend raised a silver brow as if to say: I thought you weren't afraid of a middle-aged woman?

_I'm not!_

Viole gulped and closed his eyes. A feather light brush of soft fabric and the smell of drifting cinnamon let him know that Carlisle had stepped forward, heading into the house. Putting one foot in front of the other, Viole followed.

_Home sweet home_—Viole would find whoever came up with that nonsense and step on him with his Silver.

* * *

Author's Note: So-what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Any way, let me know! Please review!


	14. The Count of Castelloni, Part 7

_Author's Note: Yay, this long-short is finally drawing to a close. Thank you for keeping up with the story thus far, and I hope you are enjoying it! This installment's a bit different; it has two POV's :)._

* * *

_Shesta_

The foyer was overrun by statues of cherubs, paintings of women in long gauzy gowns, pedestals laden with busts of a woman's head—the same woman. Dilandau went to stand beside one, reaching out to touch its button nose. "Mother Dear?"

Viole jumped when he saw it, hand on his chest. "N-no. That's Grandma Castelloni. That had to have come from her shrine that Vile, Voracious and Venomous are going to one of the hells for because they turned it into a titty bar."

"Hellfire might not work. Think they'd get a little charred and come right back," Dallet said with a chuckle.

They walked down a long hall of portraits; a lot of the people staring solemnly at them reminded him of Viole in ways. Some had his dark blue eyes, some had his wavy black hair; some had similar bone structures. As they neared the end of the hall, the portraits truly began to look familiar.

"Hey, there's that witch, Verruca!" Guimel shouted, pointing at a portrait of a long thin girl who couldn't have been more than 14 when she was captured. "I'd know those evil eyes and that hound dog nose anywhere!" He laughed, gazing at her flat torso. "Hasn't changed much!"

Viole smacked him. "Stop leering at the family-"

"Awww!" Dallet cooed. "Is this you?"

Viole threw himself in front of large portrait of a bow-legged toddler dressed in ribbons and bows. Dilandau and Gatty were quick to shove him out of the way, so that they could look. A very young Viole gazed at the painter with large blue eyes about to shed tears while clutching a stuffed, pink rabbit bigger than he was.

"Why are you dressed like a girl, man?" Gatty asked, laughing.

Viole scowled, cheeks a deep pink.

Shesta's eyes roved on to the next picture of a striking young man who Viole himself might mature to look just like. "Is that your father?"

Viole's eyes followed Shesta's. "Yeah, that's him. Guys, come on!"

The group behind them laughed and made jokes of the other pictures surrounding them. "It's like a shrine to you in diapers…and pink bows!"

Shesta rolled his eyes; then looked to Viole. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Viole shrugged. "I just—want to get this over with."

Shesta could relate. Sometimes it was best to do the undesirable tasks first to have them out of the way and out of mind. Once they did this, they could leave this kooky place full of sisters with boorish manners and young women who threw themselves at anything connected to upper nobility. Hm, well, that last part wasn't much different from the court in Astoria, but at least they showed a bit more dignity. Honestly. Shesta hadn't enjoyed opening his shower curtain to find someone already there. He'd actually gone into soldier mode and grabbed her by the neck, ready to strangle her. Just stupid.

"Hey!" Shesta whipped around, glaring at his party. "We've got work to do. Stop goofing around!"

Wide-eyed stares all around. If that didn't want to make Shesta throw himself off one of towers above, he didn't know what did. Why did he always end up being the "pill" in the group? Wasn't that Dilandau's job?

In his defense, Dilandau straightened up, wiping all traces of humor from his face. The others began to laugh again, until Dilandau strode to stand beside Shesta. "Knock it off, guys. He's right."

Gatty, Guimel and Dallet all groaned and let their shoulders slump. It was time for work when Dilandau got serious. They lined up like soldiers with Dilandau as the head. Dilandau sighed. "Viole, you lead the line."

Viole, who looked quite content in his usual position behind Miguel, which was third to last in the line, dug his heels. "Ah… actually, you can…."

"Hold your hand? Are you serious?" Dilandau raised a brow.

"No! I mean, you can…"

"Give you a hug?" The other brow rose.

Viole fumed and stomped toward the front of the line and past it, into an open parlor where he knocked on very large double doors with antique brass handles.

"Works every time," Dilandau said with a smirk. He and Gatty tapped fists and Shesta looked heavenward.

Viole's back stiffened as he must have received a reply to his knock, and slowly he pulled the brass handle to open a door. Sunlight streamed out and illuminated him, and in that moment, in his royal blue shirt and dark breeches with his hair bound in a low ponytail, Shesta supposed Viole did resemble a prince. He stepped into the room.

Dilandau hummed and walked forward. Shesta caught his arm. "What are you doing? Viole's talking to his mother. We don't need-" he stopped. Dilandau had that devilish gleam in his eyes.

"Did you really come all this way to _not_ hear this conversation play out?" Dilandau asked.

"We're moral support," Shesta said.

Dilandau blinked. "Moral—don't know that word." He looked over Shesta's shoulder and gestured for the others to follow him.

The troops, of course, rallied behind him, all clapping Shesta on the back as they passed. Shesta watched them flattening themselves against the door and sneaking peeks inside.

Great, this was going to be the conversation of the trip for the next week or so, and Shesta would be left out. Now, he had to listen.

Yes, that was exactly why he had to.

He didn't have a nosy bone in his body—but no one missed how his feet hadn't dragged when he joined the others against the door.

* * *

_Viole_

Gods, what had he expected?

Did he expect crushing hugs and scratchy kisses? Hysterical tears and shrieks for fans to keep the Lady from swooning? A slap and lots of yelling? All of the above?

He swallowed hard as he stood before Mother Dear's chair. She looked—older, smaller…different. She sat in her high-backed chair lined with purple satin and trimmed with lace, back straight, legs crossed. Her heart-shaped face was caked with makeup badly used to hide the wrinkles formed around her eyes and mouth. It also served to make her look pale and stern. Dark brown eyes seemed to penetrate Viole, holding him silent and in place as they contemplated him. Springy brown curls erupted from the base of an intricately done upsweep style complete with pink satin flowers and ribbon. Her full lips were painted pink and turned down in a frown. The tip of a closed fan touched her cheek.

"You're the very image of Lucca, you know," she said finally. Her voice was strident, yet rich enough to resound throughout the room- which made her screeching all the more unbearable.

Viole swallowed and nodded. "Uh…yeah."

She tapped her fan against her cheek, fake lashes fluttering. "So… after all this time, why have you come home? Did you hear that Lucca has been declared dead? Do you come to seize control of this estate and family from me?"

Viole started with surprise. Seize control—she thought he wanted this place? "No! I was-I was just passing through and-"

"Just passing through? So you thought you'd just pass through the place of your namesake and pass by the woman who borne you with no thought or care about your responsibility-"

Responsibility? Wasn't she just being paranoid about him coming in and taking over? "No-"

"Are you still the frivolous child who ran away to play soldier-like your father? Have you run away again and thought you could come back here-"

"No!"

Mother Dear stopped, her eyes glittering dangerously. She was on the verge of a good rant; he had to stop her, but-but he'd never raised his voice to her before. Never—not when he'd been a child, but now he was a man. The young servant girls sitting on their knees, letting their long skirts fan the floor, looked at Viole in shock.

"You dare to-"

"No. Mother Dear—Mother, just—just let me speak." Viole swallowed a large lump in his throat and met her eyes directly. "I am a soldier. I'm known as Lt Colonel Castelloni of Astoria. I'm here on a personal campaign that brings me through these parts. I have no—no business here. I don't wish to seize control of your home; I don't wish to seek sanctuary. I…" he trailed off. He really hadn't planned on what to say.

Viole bowed his head and stepped closer. Mother Dear set her fan in her lap.

"I'm just here, as your son who's come to see you, before I go again."

He didn't raise his head at the first sniffle—or the second. At the third, he dug around in his pants' pocket for his handkerchief. He didn't know if it'd be clean enough for her, but it was something. He extended it to her and she batted it away with a hand heavy with jeweled silver rings.

"You've come just to leave your poor Mother Dear all alone again…"

Viole stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket. "Er—well…" _Yeah_. "I also came to talk to you about…uh…" _Geez._ "Grandma's shrine—er—temple—er third house."

Viole tensed as Mother Dear gasped. The servant girls jumped to their feet, already fanning furiously. Mother Dear draped herself over the right side of the chair, the back of one hand pressed to her forehead. Lashes fluttered and lips trembled. "Oh-oh-we don't talk about that place or those dreaded girls in this house! Those dreaded, ungrateful brats! Oh Mother Dear found such good husbands for them she did, but they'd rather embarrass her and run off to be-be-floozies! Oh, the stories I hear! I've written them letters, begging for them to come back and let me try to salvage the proposals but no-no-no!"

Her voice was reaching octaves that only hunting hounds could hear. Viole eyed the multiple gold-framed mirrors on the walls. How was it that they never cracked? The fine porcelain perched on every surface seemed to tremble. Portraits of Mother Dear sitting in that very chair in different poses looked ready to weep with her.

"Mother-Mother!"

The wailing began.

The girls offered silk handkerchiefs and cooed things like, "Wicked girls—they don't deserve such a sweet, loving mother as you…."

She didn't even know he was there anymore. He sighed and turned on a heel, headed for the door. He saw eyes gazing at him through a crack in the double doors, blue, hazel, and magenta.

_Nosy jerks_.

"Where are you going?"

Viole jumped and whirled around. Mother Dear was on her feet, great streaks of mascara staining her rogue splattered cheeks. "I was just-You're upset, so I…."

"So you want to leave? You're the man of the family! You shouldn't run away! Oh, you're just like your father—just like him! Oh—oh…"

Oh brother. This—this was why he left and never looked back. This was why he was going to leave again, reassured that he'd made an excellent choice. His father made a great choice. Heck, Viola, Verruca and Vanessa made a great choice.

"Oh—oh-"

"Mother… shut up!"

She gasped and swooned. The girls were there to catch her arms. "My own son-do you hear how he speaks to me?"

"Oh, stop it," Viole said. He didn't move closer. He clenched his fists at his sides. "Do you want to know why I left? Why Dad left? Why the girls ran away?"

"Because-"

"No—I don't want your answer. I'm going to tell you. It's time for you to listen to someone else for a change. I left because of this. Because of you. Look at you!" Viole gestured to one of the many mirrors. "What do you see?"

Mother Dear snuffled and tossed her head. "I see a wronged woman…"

"Why do you always have to be the victim? Everything is about you. Did you ever ask the girls who they wanted to marry? _If_ they wanted to marry?"

Mother Dear sniffed. "_If_ is not a question—and who? Who? Everyone knows the parents make the matches-it's tradition."

"And look at how happy that's made so many people," Viole said bitterly. "Arranged marriages are a choice now. You choose to arrange them, but—your daughters choose not to accept them. What's so wrong with letting them do what they want?"

"They're running a-"

"That wasn't their first choice-though, I'll agree, proclaim and testify that it's just gross—but they have other guys they want to be with, and none of them seem that terrible."

"Men who won't inherit; men who aren't going anywhere! My daughters need security; men who will take care of them and covet them, so that they may live in comfort. Veronica, Valerie, Vivian, and Violet are all happy. I have three lovely granddaughters and Vivian is heavy with her second child. What daughter of mine wouldn't want that? I don't understand those girls!"

Viole didn't understand them either, but he also didn't pretend that he'd ever tried to. "Have you asked them why?"

"No! I do not speak to those rude, ungrateful brats who have dishonored the family so!" Mother Dear folded her arms over her chest. "I'm having them written out of my will, and perhaps out of the Family Book. Oh yes—yes—stricken from the Book."

Her eyes were taking on that gleam again.

"Why, Mother?" Viole asked. "Why would you do that without talking to them first?"

"I've written them letters!"

_I've read your letters before. I wouldn't blame them, if they never opened them_. "You guys need to talk. From what they've told me, they've thought about this. They have valid reasons for refusing the marriage proposals, and reasoning behind their own choices. I think you should hear them out. They would probably come and talk to you themselves, but-" Viole gestured to her hysterical reflection in the mirror. He lowered his voice and ducked his head a bit as he uttered the last part. "No one wants to talk to a person who'll start screaming and hyperventilating like a loon every time you open your mouth."

"What did you just say?"

Viole cleared his throat and raised his voice along with his head. "No one wants to talk to an irrational, loony bird!"

Snorts of laughter barely stifled came from the door.

Mother Dear went silent, aghast. She stared at him, mouth slightly open. The girls were so still they looked like statues.

"No one tells you things because we're all afraid of your tantrums and vapors. It's like talking a 3 year old! If it's not your way, it's the coming of the next Great War! People avoid you like the plague! You think Veronica, Violet, Valerie and Vivian accepted those proposals to live rich and comfy? No—they took them because those guys live leagues and borders away from you! Those guys you chose for the other three? Hah, they live too close. Mother Dear might drop in for visits, or worse, expect them to. Ever think about that? Just how often does the Bi—er-Witch Brigade come home, hm? Never?"

Silent tears streamed down Mother Dear's cheeks. There were no shrieks or wild sobs, just honest to gods tears. Regret punched Viole in the gut. Had he gone too far? Probably. More than probably-but, it was true. It was true and she had to hear it before she really was alone.

He frowned, truly looking at her, a woman who was supposed to have everything who had nothing really. Her husband was gone—and Viole doubted there was any love lost there. Her daughters were gone—because none of them could stand her. Her son—her son would rather have her think him dead. So, here Valencia Castelloni was in her great big house, a Countess who ate her meals alone staring at portraits of people who would never come home.

He neared her and she shuddered. He took one of her hands and held it between his. "Mommy Dearest," he said softly, something he hadn't said since he was 6. "I want to love you. We all want to love you. You just make it so hard."

Her thin fingers were limp in his. "So, you hate me then. All of you hate me. I know your father did."

Viole gripped her hand. "I don't hate you. I just hate talking to you; you don't listen."

Mother Dear met his gaze, eyes steadily leaking. She sniffled and retrieved her hand to pull the crumpled hanky from his breast pocket. She eyed it with disdain before blowing her nose. "Well—I'm listening now."

* * *

Author's Note: So, whats the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Any way you liked it, let me know. Please review!


	15. The Count of Castelloni, End

_Author's Note: And here we are, finally at the end! For anyone who was waiting for this, sorry it took so long. Please enjoy the final installment of The Count of Castelloni!_

_

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_

_Dilandau_

Dinner with the Castelloni dynasty was not the way to spend an evening.

In fact, Dilandau would rather sit through a 7-day conference with the Allied leaders, have dinner with Pearce (creepy bastard), kiss babies, and paint his Oreades pink, all while declaring his love for the girl of the month Allen tried to push on him. No, there was nothing like sitting at a table with 4 glaring women, one constantly dabbing at her eyes with a mascara-soaked lace handkerchief, while the other three wielded their eating utensils like weapons. Any time anyone had to ask one of them for a condiment, they kept their digits close to their bodies.

Viole sat at the head of the table, like some kind of patriarch. A large portrait of an imposing man with a dark blue glare hung behind him. Grandpa Castelloni? Mother Dear- geez, how pretentious was that, Mother Dear?—anyway, she sat at Viole's left elbow and Miguel got the honor of sitting to his right. Dilandau ended up placed directly across from Viola, who kept winking at him between flashes of silver cutlery. He wanted to modify his earlier statement.

…all while declaring his undying love for the girl of the month Allen tried to push on him…. While Dilandau was never interested in any of Allen's prospects wives for him, he'd rather feign interest and go for long walks on the beach than humor Viola's affections.

"… I am willing to—to—look for other suitors," Mother Dear said in a wobbly voice. "But the ones you've chosen for yourselves- and Verruca, you—you-not wanting to marry—that I simply cannot condone."

Verruca pounded the table. "I'm not asking permission. I just want to be on my own."

"But you need my money to be on your own?" Mother Dear asked; her voice hard.

Verruca sneered, pretty face turning ugly. "Not your money, _his_ money! You're only a regent until the real count returns. He's the Count…"

"He hasn't been officially recognized, and he's not of age to seize complete control of the estate."

Verruca, Viola and Vanessa blinked and looked at Viole, who was grim and silent. He poked at his food, some kind of pheasant stuffed with another meat Dilandau couldn't identify. Viole had made sure Mother Dear knew Dilandau was vegetarian before dinner had been made, so Dilandau was given… fish. He ran his fork over the tender meat, then stabbed its middle.

"Oh…. Er…. He's not 17 yet?"

"You forgot my birthday!" Viole stared back at them.

"It's not like you've been here the last few years to celebrate it, brat!" Viola snapped.

"I'm three years younger than you. Do the math!"

"Sixteen, he's sixteen! Dammit all, I thought-" Verruca started.

"That you could use me? Of course you did. You _are_ using me. I got you all together, didn't I…"

"We didn't want to _get together_; we wanted our share of the money!" Verruca growled. "Why would you think that we'd want to sit down to dinner with this old bat?"

Mother Dear wailed and leapt to her feet. She pointed an accusing pink fingernail at her daughter. "You always were the mean one! After all I did for you-"

"Oh, don't give me the 23 hours in labor story—or the 48 hours—every time you tell it, it's different. You want to know what I believe. I believe I fell out of your womb like a greased piglet!"

Viole palmed his forehead, and pushed away from the table. "All of you shut up!"

Vanessa snorted. "Really, baby brother, this is the second time you've screamed at us…."

"Isn't he just rude now?" Mother Dear asked, her tone conversational.

"Oh, his manners are atrocious, and he's sleeping with peasant girls!" Viola said.

"What?" Mother Dear's voice was a half pitch lower than what sopranos used to break crystal. "Peasants? Viole Lucca Cas-"

"This is not about me!" Viole shouted. "This is about-"

"I think we've had enough of your shouting, young man. You-"

Viole's gaze went dull as the women around him erupted into lectures and platitudes.

And to think, there had been 4 more of them, before Viole'd left the first time.

"I will never sign off on you not marrying, and to get any money you will need my permission, because this boy-child will never be responsible enough to be an officially acknowledged lord!"

"We'll just wait until you die, you old biddy! Keep eating those bon bon's and stuffed pheasants, Mother!" Verruca said. "You can't take it with you!"

Mother Dear squawked indignantly. "How dare you-"

"How dare we? How dare_ you_ hold money over our heads in exchange for letting us be our own people! What kind of a mother are you?" Viola demanded.

"A terrible one since all of my children hate me, apparently!" Mother Dear sank back into her chair, dabbing her now perspiring forehead with her handkerchief and leaving dark spots every place she patted.

Guimel and Dallet stuffed their faces watching the argument with rapt fascination. Shesta swallowed, looking uncomfortable. He was sitting close to Verruca, who waved a knife around as she spoke. Gatty's sword arm twitched as if he wished to draw a weapon. Miguel—Dilandau studied him. The dark haired boy sat, calmly finishing his dinner, his table manners impeccable. Once he was finished he set his silverware down, and wiped his mouth with the napkin tucked in his lap. Then, he laid a hand on Viole's shoulder, whispering something to him. Viole nodded, and looked down the table, meeting Dilandau's eyes.

He mouthed: Let's go.

He was running again.

The argument was escalating. All of the women were screeching and flapping their arms about like mad hens. Gatty and Shesta rose, letting their napkins fall to the floor. They both seemed relieved. Guimel and Dallet grunted and sighed, slipping paper currency back into their pockets.

Viole glanced at his mother and sisters and then began to walk to the door. They wouldn't even notice him leave. It'd be an exact repeat of four years ago, only Viole was an accomplished soldier now, not a sheltered boy. Nothing lost, nothing gained, which equaled: wasted time.

The only thing Dilandau hated worse than wasting time was sharing a bathroom with Celena.

Dilandau's friends were almost to the door. Viole held it open, beckoning Dilandau, with a hand, to come. Dilandau gazed at the women, his friends, then solely at Viole and rose. A clear glass centerpiece sat on the table, its multiple facets filled with translucent pink liquid. It was about as big as a fat holiday turkey. Dilandau hefted it in his arms a moment, noting its weight: about 20 pounds. Twenty pounds plus asserted force—he smashed the centerpiece on the floor.

_CRASH! _

The screeching stopped; his friends jumped. Everyone stared at him.

Well. That was satisfying. He admired the shattered glass at his feet, the slivers glistened as pink liquid congealed around them. He glanced up to meet the eyes on him and offered a smile.

"Oops."

"Dilandau, what…."

"Well, everyone else was having such a good time; I didn't want to miss out. So, what's the score? Countess, are you winning?"

Mother Dear stared at him, her face pale.

"No?" He turned to Viole's sisters. "How about you three?"

For once, even they had nothing to say.

"Hm; it's not a good game if you can't tell if you're winning. Wonder why that is? Could it be because no one can close their mouth long enough to keep score?"

"Why you albino-"

"Yes, I am," Dilandau said. Verruca balked. "And you are a loudmouthed bitch." He turned to Vanessa. "You are a coward who'd rather let your younger brother and sisters fight your battles." Vanessa had watched as Verruca did most of the arguing. "And you…" to Viola "…are a stomach churning brat"

"You're nobility, and nobility has rules to follow. No, you don't have to marry who your mother chose for you, but you've got to marry respectable guys. Tell her what you're looking for, and she'll try to look for it. She said she would. Those names you're tossing out, no good. Forget it. Get over it. You don't want to, leave. Leave like your brother did. He didn't like this life, so he made a new one. If you're scared of being broke, and that's why you're sticking around trying to embarrass your mother into doing what you want, then you don't want to be your own people. So, what is it: You actually want to be your own people or you don't? You can't choose both. Bow down or leave, either way, thanks for dinner."

"You can't speak to us like that! You aren't even a proper lord!" Vanessa was flustered, high color was in her cheeks.

"Who are you to come in here and insult us?" Verruca yelled.

"You don't know what we've been through! We don't know how to-"

"Live like your so-called peasants?" Viole said. He left the group at the door and moved to stand beside Dilandau. His boots crunched over broken glass. "So, you learn. If you really want to get out of this, you'll learn. I did, and after today, I know I'd do it all again."

"Viole, you-"

"I left here with nothing but the clothes on my back and a saddlebag of silk, silver and dried fruit. I thought I was so smart, but I'd only read about being on your own in books. It was hard. All I had was an idea to join the war effort, maybe find Dad, as if he'd want me. I got lost so many times, I ran out of food, I was cheated out of money, robbed, and when I finally did join the war effort, I learned that I was a pampered, candy-ass pansy."

Gatty and Shesta snickered softly. Both had been present at Viole's audition. Miguel remained silent; perhaps the statement struck too close to home. Miguel had been a pampered, candy-ass too, but not so much a pansy.

"I wanted to give up and come home more times than I can count, but I kept telling myself that I had to be my own man," Viole said. "If you want something badly enough, you'll do anything to get it."

Vanessa flushed. "You're lecturing us."

"Yeah, yeah I am," Viole said. "I don't want to be in the middle of this; I never wanted to be in the middle of this, but you're my sisters…" he turned to Mother Dear "…and you're my mother. I don't want to leave you like this. So, there's how you fix it."

"You mean to fix this mess, by having my last remaining daughters leave me?" Mother Dear asked.

"Mother, they've already left you. They're adults now. You have to learn to let go," Viole said gently. Mother Dear covered her mouth with a hand.

"And you mean for us to become paupers?" Viola asked.

"I mean for you to learn to support yourselves, if you don't want to abide by Mother's rules. She's already made fair compromises for you. If you won't take them, then there's no other way for you three."

Viola and Vanessa hung their heads, only Verruca still looked firm.

"What will you choose?" Viole asked, his dark blue eyes glinting with something Dilandau recognized: knowing.

Viola sighed. "You'll be sure that my husband is no more than 5 years older than me, and handsome?"

Mother Dear uncovered her mouth, eyes glistening with tears. "Of course."

"You'll let me date the suitors to see which I prefer before making any arrangements?" Vanessa asked.

Mother Dear nodded.

"You won't look for me when I leave?" Verruca asked.

Vanessa, Viola and Mother Dear stared at Verruca.

"It's the way it works, right? I go off on my own and make my own way, and no hired kidnapper comes to drag me back here."

Mother Dear bit her lip and knotted her handkerchief. "If—if that's what you want."

"Ruca, you'd go off on your own with no money? No carriages? No-" Viola was flabbergasted; Vanessa speechless.

Verruca shrugged and shot a sidelong glance at Viole. "If _he _could handle it, so can I."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Means I wasn't nearly as spoiled as you," Verruca said.

"Verruca, are you certain-" Mother Dear started.

"I have to do what I want for once, Mother Dear. I want to travel, and I don't want to be burdened with husbands and babies. My greatest ambition is not to be a pudgy noblewoman in a dollhouse surrounded by children and teacup dogs. I don't want to be old, looking out of windows and wondering what I could have done with my life." For once, Verruca's tone was not shrill or dripping with venom. She actually had a very pleasant speaking voice.

Mother Dear swallowed hard a few times, staring at Verruca, then finally nodding. "All right then. I'll-we'll have your bags packed properly, of course. And you'll be given a nice horse, and enough currency to—to start you off on the right foot. I won't have any daughter of mine selling herself…." Mother Dear stopped, not needing to say: Oh wait, you already did that. "You'll be given enough currency to start something for yourself."

Verruca's brows rose. "Really? You'd be willing to do that? I—Mother Dear, I never thought-"

"That talking to me could be this way?" Mother Dear asked. She sighed heavily, looking very pale indeed. She was probably going to have a proper swoon after all this was over. "Well, a very smart young man once told me that no one wants to talk to an irrational loony bird."

Viole blushed and ducked his head.

"I hope—I hope that we can all start something new for ourselves. I… want you to talk to me. I'll try to listen, I will," Mother Dear spoke in a rush. "Just please don't all run away. I don't want to drive you all away. I… It's lonely here. Your sisters don't visit; they hardly write, and…" she looked sadly at Viole.

"_You_ want to talk?" Viola asked.

"And _you_'ll _listen_?" Vanessa asked.

Viola whirled to look at Viole in amazement. "What did you do to her?"

"Showed me what I should have seen all along," Mother Dear said, sounding resigned. "It's time for a new path. We're going to—figure out a new family dynamic, one where we all make decisions and compromise."

Vanessa positively glowed. "Really? Starting with the décor of this house?—all of those tacky statues will have to go!"

"Oh, and the garden-disgusting!" Viola crowed.

Mother Dear's eyes went round. "But those statues-and the gardens are-"

"Hideous!" Vanessa and Viola cried.

"Oh Mother Dear, the things we have to talk about!" Vanessa and Viola crowded Mother Dear's end of the table.

Verruca hung back, edging closer to Viole.

Viole gazed at her. "It's probably not a good idea for you to travel alone through these parts."

"I didn't plan on it. What time are you and your buddies leaving? I need to know when to be ready."

Viole and Dilandau froze. "Huh?"

"Also, what's our next stop? I want to go to…."

_

* * *

_

_Viole_

Mother Dear squeezed him so tightly he thought his ribs would crack. He oof'ed and squirmed until she released him, then gasped for breath as she smoothed his hair off his forehead. She stood back, admiring him in a way that made him blush.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Just—thinking about how much you look like your father, so strong and handsome, and… destined for other things. But, you won't be like him, will you? You'll come home again, now that we're… working on things." Mother Dear looked anxious. Her large eyes filled with tears.

Viole had honestly thought about never returning, but the idea didn't seem right. He didn't hate Mother Dear or his sisters. He did want to see his nieces and nephews. He missed Carlisle and Mindy. And—well, Mother Dear and the girls were working on it and morbid curiosity would lead him to return to see how it all turned out.

He wanted to come home again.

Viole nodded and hugged his mother, less fiercely than she'd hugged him. "Yes, I'll come home again."

"Will you take your title?" Mother Dear asked.

Viole had thought about that too. The title was his. His father had shrugged it off, and now there was no one but him to take it. Before, the Emperor had done all the taxing and law-making and official business. Count Castelloni was as ceremonial a title as Duke Castelloni. However, with the emperor gone, perhaps the nobility would be expected to take charge again. There were so many things that he'd have to think and learn about, and he wasn't ready for that. Plus, to be the Count, wouldn't he have to live in Castelle again? Viole didn't want to move back.

"I… don't know," Viole said.

Mother Dear touched his face. "Well, you're not of age yet, my darling. Perhaps in another year, you'll know what's right for you."

Viole almost stumbled back in surprise. Mother Dear was really taking this "starting new" seriously. "I…I…"

"You'll come back," Mother Dear said. She kissed his cheek. "And I expect you to grow another 6 inches in that time."

"Y-yes ma'am."

Horses whinnied behind them. Viole looked over his shoulder to see his friends mounted, stallions stamping impatient hooves. Verruca sat atop a snow white mare laden with two saddle bags; she'd said her goodbyes earlier that morning. An ill-tempered Guimel was mounted on the horse beside hers. They looked to be bickering already. Viole predicted finding them in a compromising position in a few days.

"You'd better go."

Viole turned back to Mother Dear, and took her hands. "Mommy Dearest."

Mother Dear beamed.

"Love you." Viole pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and jogged to his horse.

"Awwww…" Dallet cooed.

"Shut up," Miguel snapped at Dallet. He smiled at Viole, after Viole'd finally situated himself on the saddle. Dilandau gave the order to move out, and Viole nudged his horse to trot forward. He waved to Mother Dear and the girls as they passed, then looked over at Miguel who rode beside him.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing. So, what's next for Count Castelloni?"

"Aw, come on Miguel. You guys all promised not to call me that—or tell anyone else!"

"Oh, but that promise is for when we get back to Astoria, Your Right Honorableness," Miguel laughed.

Viole groaned.

This was going to be a lo-o-o-o-ong trip.

_Are we there yet?_

End

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Author's Note: You know the drill. What's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well, anyway, let me know. Please review!


	16. Laundry

Author's Note: I'm back! I want to start off by thanking everyone who is still following this series and I especially thank everyone who's left a review. As I said at the beginning of this series, these stories are not in order. So, this story does not follow The Count of Castelloni or Country of Bones. It happened before it.

Warning: Mildly mature content

Laundry

Laundry day.

On laundry day, Allen rode into town and dropped all of the family wash off with the nice old couple that steam-cleaned and ironed noble undershorts. In the days of Encia Schezar, dropping off personals with strangers was unheard of. She'd probably sob at the sight of her oldest child trusting others with his silk shirts and linen trousers. However, if she was around to see Allen actually attempt to do his own wash, she'd cry harder.

Allen trudged up the stairs preparing himself for the headache that would be Celena's room on laundry day. Once a week, Allen entered her room and shouted at her to get all her dirty clothes together. Celena would wave a hand at the maelstrom of clothing she'd shed over the course of the week and tossed to the floor, the chairs–any surface really. One time a sock actually spun from the ceiling fan. "Help yourself," she'd say. Allen couldn't threaten her with not taking her laundry to town, because Celena would wear her clothes until they were so stiff with dirt they could stand erect on their own.

Allen massaged his temples. He reached the top of the stairs and looked between doors: Celena or Dilandau. Dilandau was usually pretty organized. He threw all of his dirty laundry into a hamper. The smell of that hamper at the end of the week left much to be desired, but once it was loaded in the back of the carriage it wasn't Allen's problem anymore. And sometimes, Dilandau was thoughtful enough to load it himself.

Not this week, though. Van was here on an unofficial visit. He was "staying" at the palace, but he spent so much time at Schezar Manor, Allen let him have the guest room. Letting Van have the guest room meant Miguel couldn't spend the weekend. Which meant Allen could rest easy knowing that Celena wasn't creeping into the guest room to play The Lucky Bandit after dark.

He was fairly confident that neither Dilandau or Van knew how to play The Lucky Bandit.

Allen sighed and walked to Dilandau's door. He opened it and stepped inside. "Laundr—what are you doing!"

_They _do_ know how to play The Lucky Bandit!_

They were on the bed. Van was shirtless with his black breeches unzipped and folded down to his naked hip bones. He lay flat on his back with Dilandau straddling his thighs and hunched over him.

Van yelped and jerked, nearly causing Dilandau to lose his balance.

"Dammit all! Allen, can't you ever knock!" Dilandau whipped his head around to glare at Allen. Van's head flopped in his direction as well, his brown eyes large and fearful.

"It's not what it looks like!"

Allen didn't know where to start on that one. His heart pounded in his chest and he could feel a vein in his forehead throbbing. If Gaddes were here, he'd probably tell Allen that his eye was twitching. "I told you—I told you not to close the door if you're going to be on the bed and—and.–why are your pants down?"

Dilandau rolled his eyes and held up pale hands stained with—multicolored ink? He scooted off Van's legs and hopped off the bed as Allen stalked closer. Van tried to sit up, but Allen shoved him flat and tilted his head at Van's stomach. A detailed drawing of a dragon peered back at him. It was large, its head just touching the center of Van's rib cage; its clawed feet seemed to perch on Van's hip bones, and its tail dangled dangerously toward Van's crotch, twisting to disappear beneath his zipper. It was outlined in black, but being colored in with whites and silvers. The beginnings of wings had started to emerge, though one was smeared.

A shallow pail of black ink and oil based paints sat on the bed beside Van.

"You were painting on Van?" Allen blinked a few times. Two 16-year-old boys in a bedroom together, one practically peeled out of his clothing while the other held him in a compromising position, were painting on each other.

These boys were decades away from The Lucky Bandit.

Thank gods.

"He's finally getting inked," Dilandau said. He had black ink smudges on his chin.

"Inked?" Allen frowned.

"Tattooed," Dilandau said. "And the guy at the parlor who did mine agreed to let me draw the design and he'd fill it in. Van and I just had to agree on which design to use. He was dead set on having a botanical rose garden on his chest for life."

"A tattoo? Van, you're king! You can't have a tattoo, especially not a behemoth like this one—wa–wait! What do you mean guy at the parlor who did yours? Dilandau, do you have a tattoo?" The vein in his forehead was going to burst.

Dilandau raised a brow and crawled back on top of Van. "Yes, I do." He dipped his hand into a dish of water inside the pail and then wiped them on a towel. "Let's see if I can salvage this wing."

Allen stared at the boy. Was he really going to ignore Allen?

"Um... yeah... he got it that night we went out, you know? _That_ night–the one right before you found out Celena was the enemy?" Van kept his head turned to Allen; his tan cheeks were pink. At least one of them had sense enough to be embarrassed, but of course the one with that sense had no Schezar blood in his veins. What did that say about Schezars?

"You got a tattoo while you were sick?" Allen supposed he shouldn't be surprised, and he couldn't be angry, not really. It happened before Allen was in charge. But still... "What did Folken have to say about that?"

"After he got over his aneurysm and after Marie taught me a few new cuss words, he said it was nice. Besides, it's not like the guy could talk what with that tattoo on his face and all." Dilandau dipped his fingers back in the pail, coloring them with more black ink, and leaned back over Van.

A tattoo, a permanent alteration. "Where is it?"

"Hm?" Dilandau worked, his jaw set, fusca eyes intense. It was fascinating to watch him work. He was so serious; his eyes burned with a passion almost equal to that in battle. Allen wondered what Dilandau would have been had their family been normal. Would he have even wanted to be a knight or a soldier?

"The tattoo! Let me see it!"

"It's on my lower back, and I'm busy. Just roll my pants down; they aren't tight."

"Roll your pants down?" Allen choked. He moved forward again, fingers swiftly folding down the top of Dilandau's breeches to see the head of a serpent. Allen rolled further. A large serpent coiled around a sword. The drawing was quite beautiful, the serpent was red with silver flame shaped patterns on its scales. The sword was black and curvy; something that would not deliver a clean death.

The beauty of the artistry, however, was not Allen's primary concern. His primary concern was: "Dilandau, you said a guy! A man had you take your pants off so that he could do this?"

"Oh please, are you serious?" Dilandau said. "Gabriel is a professional. Just because he had a little crush doesn't make him a..."

"A little crush? You pulled your pants down to let some guy leer at your..."

"Allen! He didn't leer at my anything! He just did my tattoo and I pulled my pants up. Then, he let me do Van's dye-job after I batted my lashes at him a bit."

"Oh my gods. You seduced a guy after flashing him your..."

"Allen, you came in here for something–laundry, right? Well, it's in the corner. Help yourself. Don't keep that old couple waiting. Oh, and before you go, roll my pants back up, will you?"

Allen glared. Who was thinking of laundry? Dilandau had let a pervert view his half naked bum, and was taking Van back to the same place to let that guy put his hands... where Dilandau had put his hands.

"Dilan, did you have to draw that thing's tail there?"

"Where?" Dilandau asked, his tone innocent, but Allen bet if he could see his brother's face he was grinning.

"You're not going back to that place," Allen said flatly.

"You can't tell Van what to do; he's king," Dilandau said back, never faltering in his work.

"He's a minor!"

"Still king," Dilandau said. "And Folken approves."

"Oh, I bet Folken doesn't approve. I bet Marie approves and he's too scared of her to disagree," Allen grumbled. Dammit.

Van laughed. "Allen, did you become a mind reader?"

Dilandau chuckled. "I think Marie should be king."

"Me too, but I don't think Fanelia would understand us turning over the monarchy to her. They all think she's crazy."

"Because she is," Allen said.

"Wing all fixed." Dilandau leaned until his lips almost touched Van's chest and blew on the ink. Allen narrowed his eyes as Van's lashes fluttered and his body shuddered.

"Dilandau, must you do that?"

"Do what?" Dilandau didn't move his head, breathing on Van's skin. Van let out a sigh.

"Just—just hurry up and finish, and—and after I drop off the laundry, I'll take you to this tattoo place so that I can supervise!"

Dilandau sat up and tossed a look at Allen over his shoulder. "Supervise what? You have no artistic talent what-so-ever."

"Supervise teenage hormones!" Allen threw his arms in the air. "Supervise perverts!"

"And get a tattoo?" Dilandau asked.

"What? No!"

"Only potential customers can wait around the parlor. It's policy," Dilandau sang.

"You're not getting a tattoo, so you shouldn't be able to wait around the parlor either," Allen said.

"Who said I wasn't getting a tattoo?" Dilandau said. "Van's getting the Escaflowne; I'm getting my Oreades."

"You are not getting a tattoo!"

"Why not? I've already got one; what's two?" Dilandau shrugged and dipped his fingers in the ink again.

"Because I said no. Where would you put it anyway?"

"Left shoulder blade or maybe..." Dilandau's voice deepened, "somewhere more intimate."

Van blushed.

Allen growled. "Dilandau..."

"Chill, Allen. I don't want another tattoo." Allen sighed in relief. "I want a piercing. Gabriel knows a guy who's really good."

"What do you want to pierce?" Van asked.

"Mmm... don't know yet, but I want one, and if you're getting your first ink, I'm getting my first ring."

"It'll be a night of firsts!" Van cheered and Allen cringed.

A night of firsts?

No, no... This was Dilandau and Van. They painted on each other.

"A night of firsts, hm?" Dilandau practically purred. "Sounds... interesting."

Paint. They paint on each other.

"Of course it's interesting! We'll— oh." Van's eyes glimmered. "Er..."

Paint. They paint...

"Oh relax, Allen!" Dilandau snorted. He started in on the dragon's second wing. "It's not like we're going to play The Lucky Bandit or something."

Allen almost fell over. As it was, he caught the side of the bed. "What?"

"Come on, Allen. We're 16–and we both know Guimel and Dallet. And Miguel does sleep over once a week."

Allen was going to string Miguel up by his toes!

"You two had better not..."

"And why not? Everyone else is," Dilandau said.

Allen didn't want to have this conversation. This was a conversation parents had with their children. Allen was going to screw it up. Why shouldn't Dilandau have sex? Because Allen didn't want him to wasn't a good enough reason.

"Do you think you're ready for it? It's not just something you do when it's with someone you care about," Allen said. "It changes everything and can ruin relationships. I didn't think you two were at that level yet."

Dilandau paused in his sketching and sat back, looking at Allen. Van peered at him too.

"What level is that?" Dilandau asked.

"Well," Allen sat on the bed, "ultimate intimacy. I... well, after assisting Van during... that time... I know how he feels. But I also know how new those feelings were for him, and I know they're new to you. I just always thought that you two would need more time to understand what's going on inside your bodies, before you wanted to..."

"Could this be anymore awkward?" Dilandau made a face at him. "Allen, I know all about human anatomy and physiology. I know how things work; I know why things work."

"But are you ready for the consequences..."

"What consequences could there be?" Dilandau asked. "I'm not going to hurt him and he's not going to hurt me."

"And what if you feel awkward around each other afterward?" Allen asked.

"It couldn't be as bad as how we felt around each other at first," Van said. "We can work it out."

"And if you can't?" Allen asked.

"Then we...we break up," Van's voice quivered. "But... it won't come to that. Allen, you know..."

Allen sighed. He did know, and it scared him. Van was 100% in love with Dilandau. But was Dilandau 100% in love with Van? Did he even love Van? It was very hard to tell with Dilandau. He was fond of Van; he cared about Van, but when it came down to it what was really there?

Why couldn't Dilandau be more like Celena in that regard? Allen knew that Celena did not love Miguel, and that Miguel did not love Celena. If they were—all right, when they had sex, it was probably all about satisfaction. If neither expected more, there was nothing to ruin.

Was Allen more afraid of Dilandau hurting Van than it being the other way around?

"All right, you two, all right. Just know that I wish you'd wait."

Dilandau grinned at him. "And wait we shall. Just wanted to push your buttons, Len. I think that twitch-thing your eye does is hilarious."

Allen's mouth fell agape. "You little..."

Dilandau cackled. "The look on your face when you thought we were going to have our very first time tonight! Priceless. I should get my second tat of that!"

Allen seethed and glared as Dilandau dimpled. He climbed off Van, looking at his paint stained hands. "All right, I'm done. I'm going to wash my hands. Mess that up before it dries, and I'll gut you."

Dilandau took his pail and left the room.

Van stayed on his back, looking slightly scared to move lest he smear his "tattoo."

Allen glanced at the white dragon. Every time Van breathed, it seemed as if the dragon would jump of its perch, ripping itself off Van's body and taking to the air.

"Allen?"

"Yes, Van?"

"I... I wouldn't do anything like–like that—with Dilandau unless I knew he was ready, that _we_ were ready. He teases, a lot. You know that. But he's not ready. He can't—look, you might want to talk to him about–about _touching_."

"I don't want to hear anymore."

"No, Allen. You do need to hear more. Those men, the sorcerers, they hurt him. Certain— things—set him off, but they're normal things, Allen, and he should be able to do them."

"'...they hurt him."' Allen knew that. The sorcerers had hurt Dilandau and Celena, tortured them; made them monsters; made them killers. But Van wasn't talking about beatings or starvation or invasive surgeries, or drugs, was he?

"Van, are you trying to tell me that those bastards..." Allen swallowed hard as the words got stuck in his throat. "Molested him, sexually?"

Van looked away then gave a curt nod. "I think–they didn't want him to ever—you know–be in a relationship, so they did their best to make intimacy impossible. He gets so scared, Allen. He wants to, but he just can't."

Allen burned. If anyone were to touch his skin, their fingers would melt. He wanted to break something, shatter it, burn it and bury it. It still wouldn't be good enough. It wouldn't be one of those sorcerers. Allen got off the bed and seized Dilandau's laundry hamper.

"I've got to go. Laundry day." His words were hurried and terse. He stalked out of the room. "Celena, if you want your clothes washed, bring them downstairs now!"

* * *

Allen sat on the couch in the parlor, gazing through the window. The Mystic Moon was bright that night. The house was silent, the children and monster mutt were gone. Celena was off camping with Dallet, Gatty and Migs somewhere south of Palas. It didn't matter to them that the woods were filled with displaced vagabonds and gypsies; they had swords, or so Celena had reasoned. Allen hoped a vagabond or a gypsy, didn't matter which, ran off with Migs. Though, he was sure the thieves would bring Migs back after a few hours.

Dilandau and Van were out having their "Night of Firsts".

Allen sighed and ran a hand through his hair. A heavy sickness sat in his gut. He'd actually sat in the bathroom for an hour debating if he was going to be ill or not. He'd known, Celena and Dilandau had told him how evil those men were. He knew about the pain and torture. It wasn't beyond belief that they'd violate them further, but neither of them said anything about it. Allen couldn't fault them if they were ashamed of such actions, but what if they, Dilandau especially, hadn't said anything because they couldn't remember.

Could multiple rapes be buried somewhere in all those memories they couldn't access? Maybe it wasn't even rape. Allen had seen some of things interrogation officers did in the heat of the moment when trying to get information out of unwilling prisoners. He saw Dilandau and Celena strapped to metal tables, unable to fight or even move, while those monsters loomed over them. When would it have started? How old would they have been?

He started at the sound of horses whinnying and the stable doors being slammed and bolted shut. Dilandau and Van were back? Dilandau was usually much quieter when returning. Allen glanced at the grandfather clock behind him. It was a few hours before dawn. Allen was surprised they didn't choose to go to the castle instead of coming back here.

Moments later the front door opened and much giggling ensued as something was knocked over. There was a curse from Dilandau.

"Shh...Van, do you want to wake Allen up? Come on."

"Allen's asleep?" Van's speech was slurred. He giggled. "Mmmm..."

Dilandau gave a naughty laugh. "Hey, none of that Your Majesty. You wouldn't even remember it in the morning."

"Would too."

"You are so wasted."

"S'your fault. Don't get why you're not drunk."

"Because I'm not a lightweight."

There was a thud and Allen heard portraits rattling against the walls. Van howled with laughter as Dilandau shushed him again.

"Lemme sing–I mean see–see–that ring again. Can't be-weave you let him put it there!"

Ring? Put it where?

Allen was on his feet. Enough was enough. He lit several more lanterns in the parlor, snagging a smaller one and making his way into the main hallway. Van was currently hugging a curio cabinet, gazing at it longingly. Dilandau stood back, a hand under his chin, smirking at him. His gaze flitted over to Allen. He looked him up and down.

"Hm, still dressed for the day. You haven't gone to bed. Waiting up to see the end products?" Dilandau's speech was unaffected, but Allen did detect the faint scent of liquor on him. That faint odor, however, had nothing on Van's smell of a local tavern.

"What, did he drink everything whatever bar you went to had to offer?" Allen asked. He moved to Van and carefully detached the boy-king from Mother's glass cabinet. There were crystal baubles and glass trinkets on the multiple shelves inside. Van was still skinny and shorter than Allen, but he'd grown since the war. He was broader in the shoulders and had an inch on Dilandau, who hadn't grown since the war. Neither had Celena for that matter. Wrestling Van over one shoulder was harder than it used to be.

"Not even," Dilandau snorted. "Gabe poured him a few cups of vino to calm him down for the tattoo, and he hasn't come down since. We even stopped at a tavern for food. I thought some bread and water might do him good. Nope."

Dilandau led the way up the stairs. He pulled a flint from his pocket, lighting a few more lanterns before they reached the guest room. He opened the door and stepped aside so that Allen could lug Van in and toss him onto the queen-sized bed. Allen set his lantern on one of the mahogany bedside tables, while Dilandau looked around in disdain. The room was a frilly, blue nightmare of lace and pillow shams. It was originally made for when Great Aunt Beatrice and her poodle came to visit. That old aunt had passed when Allen was nine, but with her pregnancy and Father's long absences, and then the baby, Mother had never changed the room. The pillow basket Princess Cuddles, the poodle, had slept in still sat in a corner of the room.

Van began to snore, loudly. He rolled onto his side, sinking into the soft mattress and cornflower blue, down comforter. Allen grabbed one of his boots, and Dilandau got the other. They carefully unlaced and pulled until the boots popped off the boy-king's feet.

"Sexy," Dilandau muttered, throwing the boot he held at Princess Cuddles' basket. It landed inside. Allen tossed the boot he held too, smiling when it landed on top of the one Dilandau had thrown.

Dilandau sat down on the bed, also sinking into the mattress. "So, you want to see?"

"Your piercing or Van's tattoo?" Allen asked.

"Both," Dilandau said. "Though Van might object to my undressing him while he's unconscious." Dilandau's eye remained on Allen's face, a wicked smile on his lips. He wanted a rise out of Allen, and Allen wasn't going to give it to him. Brat.

"Show me this piercing."

"Oh, you're no fun." Dilandau sighed and slicked his hair behind his left ear. Two small golden studs clung to the thin cartilage of Dilandau's earlobe. The flesh around them was slightly reddened. "I can't take them out for 2 weeks and if I do, I have to put straw in the holes to keep them from closing."

Allen nodded. "They look nice. I was expecting something, I don't know, outrageous."

"What, like a nipple ring?" Dilandau asked and Allen shrugged. "Nah, I don't know if you heard the tale of a certain red-haired doctor and an ex-Zaibach Strategos. Once upon time, these two laid down together in lust..."

Allen help up a hand, biting back a smile. He knew the story. He'd heard it firsthand from the maid who'd freed Folken and Marie.

"It's a terrible shame how gossip travels," Dilandau shook his head. Allen sank down on the bed beside him.

"Did the piercing hurt much?" Allen asked.

"Not really," Dilandau said. "I just hate needles. I try to keep my eyes closed as much as possible."

"They bring back bad memories?" Allen's voice was soft.

"Always," Dilandau said. "I couldn't watch Van getting his tattoo in the end. I waited behind the curtain."

Allen watched Dilandau out of the corner of his eye. The boy fiddled with the laces of his own boots, then tugged them off. "Maybe I'll sleep in here. That is if you don't have a problem with it, Len." He raised a brow.

"It's fine," Allen said. "He's passed out for the night, and he'll be utterly useless tomorrow."

Dilandau chuckled. "Not even an inkling of overprotective rage?"

Allen shook his head. "Dilandau, I... want to ask you something."

"Go ahead." Dilandau removed his belt and dropped it next to his boots.

"When you and Van are alone, how do you conduct yourselves?" Allen wasn't sure how to begin or how to phrase his questions.

"How do we...?" Both Dilandau's brows were raised. "Allen, that's not really your business. You said that..."

"I'm not trying to forbid you to do anything. I just... I'm concerned," Allen said.

Dilandau's eyes narrowed, glittering in the lantern light. "Van told you."

"He's worried that maybe there are things you need to talk about," Allen said.

"What's there to talk about? The sorcerers used to put instruments inside me. They liked to touch, too. Their hands were cold; their tongues were hot. I don't remember it all. I just–I get flashes when he–when Van..." Dilandau shook his head. "I don't know what to do. We go slow, it still happens. We don't do anything at all, and we're both frustrated. Folken wants to try hypnosis, but I think that's a bunch of crap."

"You talked to Folken about this?" _Before me?_ Gods almighty, was Allen jealous?

"Allen!" Dilandau looked exasperated. "You just came back into the picture. Folken's been a constant presence since I was 12. Of course I talked to him."

"But Van..."

"Folken doesn't tell Van what I tell him, just like he doesn't tell me what Van says. It's only fair," Dilandau said with a shrug. He frowned at Allen. "Does it bother you that badly?"

Allen shook his head. It hurt to know that Dilandau would rather talk to an adopted older brother rather than Allen, but it only made sense. Folken had been the first person to care for Dilandau, and Folken was the reason he was still alive. Allen, Dilandau and Celena had been together a year and at the beginning of that year, they'd been trying to kill each other.

"I just don't know what I can tell you that would be better than what Folken could say," Allen said. "I would tell you to wait until you're comfortable. To practice and stop when it's too much; maybe to push a bit when it's safe, but if you feel yourself about to lose control, stop. Maybe you could come up with 'stop' and 'go' words. If you say that special word, everything stops. I've..."

Dilandau was staring at him. "You've what?"

"It's... how you play The Lucky Bandit. It's bondage. Your partner has to trust you enough to let you tie them up, but that trust comes from those 'stop' words. Certain words mean stop what you're currently doing, other words can end the whole affair. Once those words are spoken, they have to be honored."

"Miguel lets Celena tie him up? Is he crazy?" Dilandau pondered.

Allen's blood pressure did a dance. "What?"

"So... it all comes down to you trusting your partner, and you learn to trust them because they obey. Do you... just start with the bondage stuff or do you..."

"You start off minor. Maybe you simply tie their hands, no blind folds yet. And perhaps you should be the one to do the tying, if...if Van agrees." Oh, Allen could not believe he was teaching his little brother how to play sex games.

"It's not just a game of trust; it's a game of control." Dilandau chewed his lower lip. "I wonder if Van would let me control him. If he'd trust me to be in control."

"Van trusts you with anything," Allen said. "Does he usually initiate all of the sexual contact?"

"Not all the time," Dilandau sighed.

"And when you start it?"

"We get a little more done, but when he really starts to respond, I see their faces and feel their hands and tools." Dilandau rested his head in his hands, leaning forward. Allen placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him close.

"It's all right."

"Would _you_ be all right with damaged goods?" Dilandau asked.

"You're not damaged goods, Dilan," Allen said, stroking his hair. "I can give you examples of damaged goods, and let me assure you that you are fine."

Dilandau snickered. "Bad dates?"

"I wouldn't even call them dates," Allen said. "More like divine punishments for crimes committed in a former life."

"Thought you said Celena was punishment for those?"

"I must have been a very bad person indeed," Allen grunted.

Dilandau snorted. "You know, I'm surprised you let Celena go camping this weekend."

"I'm not worried about her with Gatty and Dallet," Allen said.

"Gatty, Dallet and Miguel, you mean. After learning so much about The Lucky Bandit, I'm amazed you're all right with..."

"She didn't say anything about Miguel going!" Allen was on his feet, upsetting Dilandau's balance. He toppled onto his back, lying beside Van who rolled over and spooned him.

Dilandau grinned and batted his lashes angelically. "Oh... oops."

Oops his foot. He was going to...

"Allen, if you are willing to accept that Van and I are going to experiment, you should accept that Celena's doing it."

"_Accepting_ and _knowing_ that it is probably going on RIGHT now is different! If I can stop it, I will!" Allen cracked his knuckles and was pretty sure he looked deranged.

"That doesn't make any sense..."

"See no evil, hear no evil, know no evil. But since I have heard evil, I must dispense of it." Allen smiled at Dilandau and Dilandau blinked.

"So... uh... it's okay as long as you're oblivious to it?"

"Yes! I mean, no! I mean... yes. I don't want to hear about it, or think about it, and I need to find my sword. Oh, and Dilandau...off that bed and get in your own! And when I get back Van better still be in here, and you better still be in there!"

Dilandau continued to stare as if Allen had lost his mind. "Uh..."

"Now! Move it!"

Dilandau struggled to free himself from Van. He got to his feet, his garments and hair rumpled. Gathering his boots and belt he walked out of the room, followed by Allen who shut the door. Allen watched as Dilandau crossed the small foyer to get to his own room. Before he entered Dilandau turned, gazing at Allen.

"Len, if you really don't want me to..."

Allen squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, a teenager migraine was coming on. "Dilandau... I trust you to make your own decisions. You've made them just fine up until now."

"But you don't trust Celena?"

Allen didn't trust Celena with goldfish, especially not after she'd swallowed the last one on a dare. "I don't want to be an uncle until I am old and gray."

Dilandau laughed, hand finding the knob to his door. "Hate to break it to you, but I saw a gray in there last week."

Allen glared as Dilandau disappeared through his doorway.

_Brat._

But a brat with a point. What would Allen look like rushing out of here in the middle of the night to interrupt a camping trip? Celena might have been crude and unrefined, but she wasn't an exhibitionist and furthermore, she demanded respect. Allen trusted that she wouldn't compromise that.

He sighed and headed back downstairs, blowing out lanterns. He reclaimed his seat on the couch in the parlor and covered his face with a round couch pillow. Allen knew he should get to bed. The old couple who did their laundry usually had it ready for him to pick up at noon the following day.

Dilandau had probably mixed some of Van's laundry in with his, and Celena probably had a horde of it under her bed, but they'd sort it next laundry day. Allen's hands shook on the pillow he held over his face. He was still angry, still sickened; still hurt. He'd only just managed to handle a situation without knowing what he was doing.

Dilandau spoke to Folken often, and Folken had Marie and Pearce to assist him. They knew more about certain things than Allen. It wouldn't be hard to ask Dallet for a communication device; it wouldn't be hard to ask for Folken's frequency, but it might be awkward to ask someone else how he handled his laundry.

In the days of Encia Schezar, dropping off personals with strangers was unheard of, but Encia Schezar was no longer there and Allen was not ashamed to admit that he needed help handling silk, sorcerers, and general Schezar madness.

* * *

Author's Note: So, what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well-anyway you liked it, let me know. Please review!


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